


What If They Both Had Amnesia?

by EinahSirro



Series: What Would Sherlock Do? [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Coping, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Fluff, Humor, Light Angst, Lovebites, M/M, Schmoop, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 02:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 27,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2834072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock finally have that first, beautiful kiss. Then... Something... Happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Something Has Happened

John opened his eyes to the white walls and bright lights of a hospital room, and knew without knowing that Something Had Happened. He closed his eyes and breathed a bit, feeling sore muscles and a throbbing head, and concluded that Something Had Happened that involved a blow to the head. When he opened his eyes again, they wandered around the hospital room to find a large, sour looking black shape leaning on an umbrella.

John blinked several times and managed a rusty, “Where’s Sherlock?”

Mycroft gave a thin grimace that did not really even pretend to be a smile. “How touching that you should ask that before anything.”

John sighed and closed his eyes. If Sherlock were in any real danger, Mycroft would not bother to be so snippy. John lay and let the room whirl about him for a moment. Then he opened his eyes again and groped about for the control button that he knew would be… ah, there it was. John levered the head of his bed up a bit so that he could reach for the cup of water that someone had kindly left on the bedside tray. He drank a bit, moistened his throat, and said, “Alright. But. Where is Sherlock?”

Mycroft contemplated the handle of his umbrella for a moment, broodingly. “In ICU.”

John’s brow furrowed. Well, that was more than a bit not good. “How bad is it…” he rasped.

Mycroft tipped his nose at John again, “The neurosurgeon is optimistic. He seems to believe it’s more a matter of patience than luck.”

“What happened?” John asked, squinting in the too-bright light.

“Apparently the two of you dropped through a rotting floor and bounced your heads off the concrete foundation of the basement below,” Mycroft said, rather absently. His eyes were roving over John’s face as if reading a novel.

John contemplated for a moment. “At Baker Street?” He was confused. The floors there were fine… weren’t they?

Mycrofts eyebrows rose and fell again quickly. “What do you remember?” He asked silkily.

John cleared his throat again. “I was going to Tesco’s for bread and milk.”

“Ah.” Mycroft responded, and then waited.

John’s eyes glanced away, toward the door. “But we weren’t really out of bread and milk so I came back.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Exactly when was this, John?”

Uncomfortably, John inspected the little button on the control pad that raised and lowered the bed. “You had just dropped us off.”

Mycroft grew very still, which was odd, because he hadn’t been moving before. But he managed to convey the impression of having gone from mere inactivity to focused alertness without any identifiable signs… perhaps he had simply stopped breathing.

“That was Friday, John,” he commented quietly.

John glanced at Mycroft and then looked around restlessly for more water.

“Today is Monday,” Mycroft added meaningfully.

Now John focused on Mycroft. “Monday, is it?” He said uneasily.

“Very much so.” Mycroft said coldly. “You and my brother have been… burrowed in at Baker Street in a veritable cocoon of privacy for two days before coming out on this case. Do you mean to say you remember none of it?”

John stared at him in horror. 

Mycroft’s smile this time was small, sinister, and genuine. Then the doctor, a tall, slender man with a soothing Jamaican smile, came in to check John’s vitals, and recommend that he get some rest.

Mycroft left, but as he exited, he heard John say, “I have to go see Sherlock. I just want to see him—“

“Of course,” the doctor said calmly. “Just you rest a bit and then when we know you won’t be too dizzy, you can take a trip down the hall. He’s just down the hall.”

John relaxed back into the bed, thankful that no matter what Mycroft’s personal misgivings were about John’s relationship with Sherlock, he had apparently apprised the hospital staff that here were two co-dependent gits that couldn’t function without each other.

John allowed his bed to be lowered again, took his pain medication without protest, and drifted off to sleep.

Mycroft went to stand at Sherlock’s bedside. The monitors attached to the long, white body beeped with reassuring regularity, and he was breathing without the help of a ventilator. No major swelling, MRI did not show anything alarming… really, the prognosis was as good as it could be for a head injury.

Mycroft stared soberly down at Sherlock. “I do not know what is in more danger, brother,” he said in a low voice, “your head or your heart.”

Then he turned, settled into a plastic chair, and propped the umbrella carefully at his side. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his phone and continued his work as a Minor Official without whom the budding resistance in Iran might wobble. It would be a long night. But _les Holmes_ rarely sleep.

 

When John awoke some eight hours later, he was in a hospital room. Bright lights, white walls. His body was stiff and sore, and his neck muscles ached, but he moved and twitched, and rolled his head from side to side until he ascertained that he hadn’t broken anything, nor did he seem to be injured. Why, then, was he in hospital? Major illness? Stiff, sore… flu? Meningitis? (oh God)… he fumbled around for the control button and levered himself to sitting position.

He craved water, but there was none, and so John testingly swung his legs over the side of his bed. He looked down at his arm, noticing the IV there for the first time. Gently, he removed it and put the tape back over the puncture site. Then he stood experimentally, and when he didn’t feel too dizzy, he made carefully for the loo to get a drink of water.

(Doctors make the worst patients.)

In the loo, John drank his fill, splashed water on his face and scrubbed it dry with a bristly white towel, and then toddled rather unsteadily back out.

Just as John was rummaging around the corner cabinet where his street clothes had been obligingly stored, the door opened and Mycroft Holmes entered the room. John startled at the sight of him, and then twitched self-consciously at his hospital gown to make certain his arse was covered.

The two men stared at each other for a cool moment. Then John swallowed, “Where’s Sherlock?”

Mycroft rolled his eyes briefly and said, “Still in ICU. Breathing on his own. No change, really, but that is to be expected.”

John pulled his clothes out of the cabinet and held them to his chest rather defensively. “ICU? What happened?”

Mycroft stared at him appraisingly. “I told you. You fell through a rotting floor and hit your heads.”

John blinked about himself for a moment, trying to absorb this idea of falling through floors. “At Baker Street?” He asked, confused. Surely the floors of their flat were not in such shape.

Mycroft’s eyes almost seemed to glow red. “No,” he said slowly, and then added very deliberately, “This is Monday. I last saw you Friday when you and Sherlock left the French restaurant. You spent the weekend alone together at Baker Street and then today came out on a case. You were both injured in an abandoned house in Islington. You seem to have a concussion, and Sherlock is unconscious in ICU just down the hall.”

John stared at him. “That’s… alright… thank you.” He managed. He certainly did appreciate that very succinct summary.  
“I need to go see Sherlock.” John said assertively, and Mycroft stepped aside as if to clear the way.

“By all means,” he purred, and John eyed him uneasily as he slipped back into the loo to dress himself, and then re-emerged feeling somewhat more human, to follow Mycroft down the corridor.

 

They stood at Sherlock’s bedside, watching in silence as the detective breathed peacefully on his pillow. His black curls fell away from his face and he had a bit of stubble. John wanted to reach out and touch, but refrained. Mycroft’s eyes flicked to the side, seeming to assess John without turning his head.

“The neurosurgeon is optimistic,” he repeated. 

John nodded dumbly. Mycroft glided out of the room, and John settled into the chair nearest the bed to stare at the long, elegantly bony white hand that lay limp on the sheets. His head hurt a bit, and when he ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, he could feel a tender spot. Sighing, he sat back in the chair and let his mind wander. He felt a bit… confused.

 

Some hours later, Mycroft returned, freshly attired, with a tray of cafeteria food balanced easily in his hand. He found John asleep in the chair by Sherlock’s bed, as he expected, and Sherlock still unconscious. But his brother’s head was positioned at a slightly different angle, which Mycroft noted with pleasure. That was a good sign. Movement of one’s own accord wasn’t the specialty of one in a deep coma.

John stirred when Mycroft set the tray on the table beside his chair. He watched intently as John struggled to wakefulness, looked around the room in evident confusion, and then focused on Sherlock. He sat forward in his chair, glanced down at his own rumpled clothes, and rubbed his neck gingerly. “What happened?” he asked Mycroft wonderingly.

“Sherlock fell through the rotting floorboards and hit his head on the concrete foundation of the basement,” Mycroft said carefully, and watched as John’s concerned eyes returned to his friend lying motionless in the bed.

“At Baker Street?” John asked, clearly puzzled.

Mycroft smiled thinly. “No, no… he was out on a case.”

“Oh…” John breathed, and seemed to be struggling with a number of questions that he dared not ask.

“Monday,” Mycroft said obligingly.

John looked privately panicked, but was clearly trying not to show it. “Right, Monday. Uhm… how long has he been unconscious now?”

Mycroft looked at the clock on his phone. “Nearly twelve hours. It’s almost midnight. But the neurosurgeon is optimistic. We must simply wait until Sherlock is ready to wake.”

John swallowed, and seemed to be staring at Sherlock’s hand as if he longed to reach for it.

“He is undoubtedly in need of rest,” Mycroft added. “I suggest you go back to Baker Street and get some sleep yourself, Doctor Watson. You have been here for most of the day.”

John seemed to be trying to keep from falling off the rapidly turning earth. “Yeah, maybe I should… I should… yeah.”

Such an articulate fellow, Mycroft brooded. Such a match for his genius brother.

“Would you allow me to take you home? Perhaps tomorrow you could bring Sherlock’s own pajamas and robe, so he’ll be more comfortable when he wakes.”

John breathed deeply and stood, obviously struggling to conceal the panic in his eyes. “Right. Yeah. Good idea.”

Mycroft handed the tray of food to John, who took it absently and then followed him out of the room with a long, last look at Sherlock’s still sleeping form.


	2. Something Has Definitely Happened

John awoke in his room at Baker Street. His body was stiff, as if he’d been in bed for two days. He got to his feet, looking about himself, disoriented. What day was it? He picked up his phone from his bedside table and looked. It was Tuesday afternoon, good Lord. John glanced at his reflection in the mirror and realized that he hadn’t shaved yesterday, nor this morning. Did that mean he didn’t work yesterday?

John paused for a moment. He didn’t remember working yesterday. He checked the date on his phone again. Tuesday the 11th. But… the last he remembered was Friday the 7th.

By God, was Sherlock experimenting on him again?! This was a sight more serious than the Lost Wednesday… this was a whole weekend and… John stopped, his hand on the door leading to the hallway. This was an important weekend that had been lost.

Wasn’t it?

It was, wasn’t it?

What if it wasn’t? And that’s why – John’s brain gave up trying to assess the situation. He left the room, pattered down the stairs, and bellowed “Sherlock!!” at very near the top of his lungs.

In the sitting room, comfortably ensconced in Sherlock’s chair, was Mycroft Holmes.

John glanced around and demanded instantly, “Where’s Sherlock?”

Mycroft drew a long, irritable breath in through his nostrils. “In hospital.” He answered briefly.

John’s eyes widened. “What happened?”

“He fell and hit his head.” Mycroft said wearily.

John looked about again wildly. “In here?”

Mycroft stared up at the ceiling light in the kitchen. “No, John, he was out on a case. He’s unconscious, but the neurosurgeon is optimistic. We are merely waiting for him to wake up.”

John sank down onto the couch and ran his hands through his hair until it stood on end.

“I have to go see him,” he decided instantly. 

Mycroft merely looked at him with a suggestion of a sneer. “May I suggest showering first?”

In the shower, John soaped himself quickly and noted with confusion the presence of several large bruises on his hip and leg. After he shut off the water, dried himself, and undertook his quickest shave since Afghanistan, he pulled on clean clothes and returned to the sitting room to confront Mycroft, who had by now made them each a cup of tea.

“How did I – oh, thank you.” John accepted the tea. “How did I get all these bruises??” He asked.

Mycroft looked pained. “Really, John, I don’t spy on your and Sherlock’s intimate moments despite my brother’s paranoid belief that I monitor your every breath.”

John blushed and sipped at his tea. Oh, did he long for a sit-down with Sherlock so that he could ascertain just what exactly had happened in the last 4 days.

They drank their tea in semi-companionable silence. Mycroft seemed to be watching John without directly looking at him. 

Finally, John finished his tea (and the caffeine did wonders for his outlook.) He put down his cup and stood. “I’d like to go see Sherlock now,” he said.

Mycroft tipped his head politely, and they exited the flat. The sky was low and gray over them as they slipped into the waiting black car.

John was staring nervously out the windows, tapping his fingers, when Mycroft received a text and said, “Ah.”

John looked at him questioningly.

“Sherlock has awakened,” Mycroft explained, and even he could not disguise the glimmer of relief about his eyes.

They both seemed to inhale and exhale heavily at the same time. The car pulled up to the kerb of the hospital, and John led the way inside.

The two men were just exiting the lift when they heard the rumble of Sherlock’s voice down the hall. “Where is John, you ridiculous creature? Don’t tell me you don’t know… on second thought you probably don’t know. You don’t know your wife picked up someone else’s dry cleaning instead of your own, you don’t know why your trousers are suddenly too short, you don’t know why she would be so distracted, certainly she hasn’t met someone else while you work 80 hour weeks to pay for that sailboat that you wanted and she didn’t—“

John’s face broke into a relieved smile and he picked up his pace to get to Sherlock’s room before the surgeon grabbed a syringe and just started stabbing in self-defense.

Sherlock was sitting up in the bed, his hair a black, electrified halo, his face white and drawn… but it lit up immediately when John came through the door.

“John. You’re not injured—“ Sherlock said, and his eyes flicked up and down John’s form quickly, before turning to assess Mycroft as he entered the room more sedately. “—neither of you is injured. Obviously the car was struck on the passenger side. Undoubtedly we were making a left—“ Sherlock broke off again at Mycroft’s stare.

“No, Sherlock,” John said immediately, moving as close to Sherlock’s side as was decent. “It wasn’t a car accident. You fell through a rotting floor.”

Sherlock looked nonplussed. “At Baker Street?”

Mycroft seemed to ripple with a sort of suppressed shudder.

“No,” John continued, “You were out on a case. Right Mycroft?”

Mycroft let his eyebrows flick in agreement.

Sherlock grew still and John could see the suspicion filling him like water filling a bathtub. “How long have I been unconscious?” He demanded.

Once again, John had to defer to Mycroft’s superior knowledge.

“Approximately 26 hours.” Mycroft told him, and as Sherlock opened his mouth to ask another question, his brother pre-empted him. “Tuesday. The 11th. We were in the car together last Friday, the 7th.”

Sherlock was quiet. His eyes flicked at John and then settled with unaccustomed reticence on the sheets covering his knees.

All three of them were silent for a moment, and then Sherlock announced, “I’m going home.”

Mycroft watched in silence as Sherlock struggled dizzily out of the hospital bed, wavered, and sank back down again. Then he spoke.

“Perhaps it would be advisable to defer to the opinion of your doctor,” he suggested with barely concealed irritation.

John glanced between them quickly. “I can take care of him at home—“

“I meant the physician supervising your care here, at this hospital.” Mycroft interrupted, reaching for the clipboard at the foot of Sherlock’s bed. “The gentleman whose barely legible handwriting graces this medical chart…” he perused the paperwork and his voice faded off. His lips pursed. He replaced the chart and excused himself from the room.

John and Sherlock were left alone for a moment.

Immediately, John turned to Sherlock. “Right. What did you do? I don’t remember any of the last four days and if you put something in my tea again, we’re going to have it out the minute you’re healthy enough to punch.”

Sherlock lifted his eyes, wide, pale, and hurt. “I didn’t do anything.” Then he paused and amended, “I don’t … I don’t believe I did anything.”

John cast a quick glance at the door and said quietly. “Well, you need to tell me exactly what happened in the last four days.”

Sherlock looked mildly panicked. “I can’t. I don’t know.”

John’s breathing was a bit agitated. “Do you mean to say that neither of us remembers anything beyond that damn car ride with your git brother?”

Sherlock looked away for a moment and seemed to be trying to read words in the air. Then he returned his attention to John and sank back, finally, against the pillows. “Yes, John. That is exactly what I mean to say.”

They stared at one another warily. In the hall, footsteps and a tapping umbrella signaled the re-approach of said git brother.

“Say nothing of this, John,” Sherlock breathed, and they both arranged their faces into the calmest masks they could as Mycroft re-entered.

“You’ll both be pleased to know that the hospital has agreed to relinquish your care to your personal physician for the time being.”

The phrase ‘for the time being’ did not escape either one of them.


	3. Well This Is Not Good

This car ride was not like the previous car ride. John and Sherlock avoided Mycroft’s eyes, avoided one another’s eyes, and only Mycroft himself seemed willing to look anyone in the face. His own eyes went between the other two silent occupants of the car with clockwork regularity. He seemed to waver between grim amusement and a more brooding concern. At last he took a deep breath as if coming to a decision, and Sherlock stiffened and lifted his head as he stared out his window, clearly bracing himself. But neither spoke until they reached Baker Street.

“Do you require my assistance any further?” Mycroft asked with cold politeness, which John declined in as bland a manner as he could muster.

“Oh. No, I think we can… I can get him up the stairs well enough.” 

They both stood on the step of 221B, Sherlock bracing himself against the doorframe, and waited pointedly for the black car to pull away.

The black car waited pointedly for them to unlock the door and enter the flat.

The pointedness continued for a moment until John admitted defeat and inserted the key. Then he guided the taller man carefully in the door and closed it behind them. John leaned against the wall in relief, but Sherlock gestured toward the stairs.

“He won’t leave till he sees me at the window,” he said wearily, and John heaved himself away from the wall.

“Right,” he said, and after a moment’s hesitation, he stepped up under Sherlock’s arm, wrapped his own arm around the thin waist, and helped him up the stairs. Nothing unusual here, just a bloke helping his hurt friend up the stairs. Not like he hadn’t done that before, John thought, tightening his arm around Sherlock with unconscious possessiveness. 

They entered the flat and Sherlock went to the window, lifting a hand to the car below. The car pulled away. Sherlock turned and sank into his chair, and John went to the kitchen to do the only thing he could think of doing at the moment. Make tea. With sugar. Lots of sugar. We’re going to need sugar, he thought rather incoherently.

Five minutes later, they were seated across from each other sipping their tea and avoiding one another’s eyes. Sherlock was obviously sorting rapidly through data John could not even guess at. At one point, he stood, walked carefully but steadily (dizziness seemed to be fading) to the loo, rattled around a bit but to John’s ear, did not use the toilet or run any water. Then he returned and prowled about the flat, obviously searching for—

“Ah,” he said, pouncing on his phone. He returned to his chair and began scrolling through his texts. This gave John the bright notion to check his blog. Perhaps… oh, something! 

John retrieved his laptop and the two returned to their silent chairs and silently dug through their silent appliances. In silence.

The silence was broken by the tapping of heels coming up the stairs.

Sherlock murmured, “Her hands are full, you’ll want to open the door.”

Even John could deduce that Mrs. Hudson with full hands meant free hot scones, and he set aside his laptop to spring to the door.

She came in with a full, delicious smelling tray and a relieved smile. “Well, we did have some excitement, didn’t we?” She remarked, beaming upon them both. John gave an answering smile and uttered some meaningless sounds that indicated vague agreement (to what, he knew not.) Then he stepped away to get her some tea. She placed the tray on an ottoman, and then went to stand over Sherlock in a motherly manner.

“Now you be sure to fill out that paperwork the inspector left for you. You’re entitled to compensation, both of you, if it comes to that.” She remarked.

John opened his mouth to question her, but Sherlock immediately cut him off. “Of course, Mrs. Hudson. But really…” he let his voice trail off dismissively, and immediately she handed him a scone and continued in a mildly scolding voice.

“No arguments, Sherlock. You must learn to do things by the book if you’re going to be a legitimate working consultant. No more shady doings, that nice inspector suffered grief enough for bringing you in back when… before… well, you know. And it’s thanks to that brother of yours that all has been set right now,” she shook a finger at him and then accepted the tea John handed her. They both sat down. John reached for a scone.

“And I know the two of you enjoy running about like boys in a salvage yard, but really, you’re old enough that falling through a floor could leave you both with a hip like mine, and soon enough you’ll be able to tell when it’s going to rain before any weatherman. So you keep up with that paperwork, and you submit it.” She advised them in her calm way.

Falling through a floor? Both of them? John mused, and then his brows lifted comprehendingly when he thought of the bruises on his hip. Mycroft, that wanker! He must have known. John bit into his scone as if he were taking a chunk out of Mycroft. He knows more than we do about this, John brooded.

Sherlock shot him a look from under his curls as if reading his mind. Probably was.

“John. Laptop.” Was all he said, though, and held out his hand.

John put his scone down and leaned forward to shake Sherlock’s hand. “Watson, actually, John Watson, nice to meet you.”

Sherlock sighed and rumbled, “John!”

John relented and handed him the laptop. Mrs. Hudson gave a smirk. “You two.”

Sherlock hunkered over John’s laptop, ignoring them both, and it fell to John to make conversation.

“How is your sister doing?” He asked the landlady.

Her face fell into somber lines. “Well, it’s going the way the doctors said it would. Not quick, but steady,” she admitted.

John was unsure what she meant. Had the sister suffered some illness in the last four days?

“I spent every minute I could with her until Monday morning, you know, but I don’t know if she even recognized me.” Mrs Hudson continued dolefully. 

John made a sympathetic noise and shook his head.

“Then I come back to find that the two of you are in hospital and for a moment I wondered if there was any good news in the world at all! But here you are none the worse for wear, I can see. Hope you never have a stroke is all I can say,” she sighed, and then got to her feet.

“Well, mustn’t hover. Plenty to do.” 

John saw her to the door and thanked her for the scones. “Oh, you just try to get Himself to eat some. Too thin by half, still.” She patted John’s hand and left the flat. Both men listened attentively until her heels had clicked down the stairs, around the corner, and into her own dwelling.

When John had closed the door and turned back to Sherlock, he saw that the detective had set the laptop aside and was now deducing, his palms together under his chin, eyes narrowed. After a moment, Sherlock issued his conclusions.

“We spent the weekend here together. My text history indicates that Lestrade offered me a case on Saturday and I informed him that I wasn’t leaving the flat for anything under an 8. No, actually, I said WE. We were not leaving the flat. That’s rather… indicative I think—“

John swallowed.

“—the whiskers you left in the bathroom sink this morning indicate two days growth, therefore I suspect that our accident occurred Monday morning, no doubt in response to the last text I received from Lestrade which drew us both out of Baker Street. It appears you showered and shaved sometime Sunday evening. Leftovers in the fridge suggest we went out for dinner. You did not shave again until this afternoon before coming to the hospital to retrieve me. Do you remember waking up in the hospital?”

“No,” John managed.

“Do you remember being hospitalized at all?”

“No.”

“Can you find traces of your own head injury?”

John felt about his scalp, sinking his fingers into his short blond hair. Then he smoothed it down self-consciously. “Bit of a tender spot. Not much, really.”

Sherlock nodded. “You remember waking up this morning?”

“No. I mean, it was afternoon. I was in the car with you and Mycroft, and then it was this afternoon and I was in my bed.” John admitted.

Sherlock nodded. “You have anterograde amnesia. I may merely have lost the weekend. Although I was hospitalized longer and my condition seemed more serious, yours is actually more concerning.”

John sank into his chair. He was a doctor. He did not need Sherlock to explain anterograde amnesia. He was afraid to look at Sherlock. There was a long, painful moment.

“I’ll be a liability.” He said flatly.

“Oh nonsense!” Sherlock practically snarled. “Your medical and military training is intact. All you need to know is to follow my instructions and take care of me.”

John lifted his eyebrows in hurt disbelief. “Oh, that’s nice, that is. Thanks for that.”

Sherlock exhaled through his nostrils. “I simply mean that you do not need to be able to solve cases.”

John looked away. Then he looked back. “There’s more to our life together than cases.”

They both fell quiet. Finally, for lack of anything more effective to do, they sank back into their former concerns. Sherlock returned to the computer, and seemed to be typing up a letter of some sort. John moodily ate some more scones.

“Have a scone,” he said, holding one out to Sherlock.

“Busy.”

“Have a scone or I’ll come over there and shove it down your throat.”

Sherlock took the offered scone irritably. “Really, John, such sweet nothings.”

John started the fire in the fireplace as darkness fell outside. The messy coziness of Baker Street seemed to enfold them both, and Sherlock tipped his head back on his chair. John watched, unwilling to move and disturb him, as his friend’s questing gray eyes gradually grew heavier, and the laptop slid sideways a bit. Finally, Sherlock drifted off to sleep.  
John waited until he was sure the sleep was sound before leaning forward to take the laptop. Turning it toward himself, he read the document Sherlock had begun.

_Tuesday the 11th._

_John and I have apparently both suffered head injuries falling through a rotten floor in Islington on a case, Monday the 10th. John has anterograde amnesia and I seem to have merely lost the weekend that we spent apparently coming to terms with our mutual romantic attraction. Thus far only Mycroft knows and even he may not realize the extent to which we have been compromised. I believe we must do whatever we can to conceal the situation._

John closed the laptop and thought a minute. Tonight, when I go to bed… I might wake in the morning and be unaware of all of this. Unaware of the hospital, unaware of the head injury, unaware of the date.

He rose from his chair and went quietly to his room. On a piece of notebook paper, he wrote himself a note, saying essentially the same thing Sherlock said but without the poncy language. Then he propped it by his bed. He was tired, and bed suddenly looked quite inviting.

But it was also the place where he might lose everything he knew from the 7th on. Suddenly he understood Sherlock’s aversion to sleep. He didn’t want to sleep either.

He changed into his pajamas for greater comfort, but went back down to the sitting room, where Sherlock still dozed splayed in his chair. John moved to put a blanket on his friend from the couch, but Sherlock suddenly jerked awake and looked around confusedly.

“Hey,” John said softly. “You could probably use a bit of a rest in your own bed.”

Sherlock merely blinked at him rather passively. John smiled a bit and leaned over him, sliding an arm under Sherlock’s back to help the taller man to his feet. “Alright, come along. We’re putting Sherlock to bed.”

“Mmm, yes. Might need. Bit of a rest.” Sherlock muttered haltingly, and John guided him down the hall and into his bedroom. Once inside, Sherlock stripped himself rather fumblingly and then crawled under the sheets with an uncharacteristic lack of resistance. Once settled against the pillows, his black curls framing his face rather fetchingly, he turned to John.

“Stay?” was all he said.

John wavered. Well, he’d probably spent the weekend in this bed and just didn’t remember. Both of them needed comfort. Someone nearby. The person you trust the most. Without further internal or external comment, John turned off the light, climbed into the bed, rolled near Sherlock (but not oppressively close,) and waited. 

Sherlock turned and draped an arm across John’s waist. “Alright?” He asked sleepily.

John’s face crinkled in a fond smile. “Alright,” he agreed. They shifted slightly closer to one another. John let his hand come to rest on Sherlock’s chest, just under that long chin. They gazed at one another for a bit, both smiling slightly, and then drifted off to sleep.

Really, neither of them should have even been out of hospital yet, much less sleeping the sleep of the slightly brain damaged with no one nearby to see that one or both of them awakened. But there they were, gradually drawing closer yet in their first moments of light dozing. And it wasn’t even 9pm yet in London. But it _had_ been a hard day.


	4. Alright, We'll Just Have To...

John awoke in a warm, blissful cocoon of blankets and limbs. Sherlock was sprawled across him possessively, his face buried in John’s neck. John blinked several times into the cloud of black curls near his nose. My God, they must have… John’s forehead creased. They must have done something, they were in bed. Slowly, so as not to alarm Sherlock, John wrapped his arms around his friend’s naked back. Oh yes. Naked. Must have… but wait, no, he was in pajamas. Fully covered. Experimentally, John’s hand drifted down toward that prize-winning arse, but halted when he encountered a waistband. Shorts. Sherlock wasn’t naked either.

Had they both fallen asleep before they could…? John almost snorted. That was a sad state of affairs. Not getting any younger, was he? John relaxed and brooded for a bit, trying to sort out his thoughts. Really, the last thing he remembered was … he was in the car with Sherlock and Mycroft. No, no, wait, they’d gotten back to Baker Street. He’d said he’d go for milk and bread, but he came back… did they kiss? Fuzzily, it seemed as though there might have been a kiss.

Now he’s waking up with Sherlock on top of him. But…. Taking a quick inventory of his body, it didn’t seem like he’d had sex of any kind. No mess, no soreness, no endorphins lingering. Well, there was soreness but it was mostly in his hip and lower back. Hm.

Part of John wanted to wake Sherlock up and demand his memory be filled in for him. Part of him was relishing the comfort of having this beautiful man splayed across him like a dozing lizard on a warm rock. John tightened his hold around his sleeping partner and buried his nose in that long neck, inhaling the scent.

Then John’s forehead wrinkled again. There was a distinct trace of Hospital in that scent. Had they gone to Bart’s? Wait, hadn’t Sherlock gone to Bart’s yesterday to see about some Ebola cultures? Ah yes, that was it. So, it must be Saturday. Ah, Saturday. Lazy Saturday. John let his hands wander around Sherlock’s smooth back, enjoying the hot weight of him.

 

Sherlock came awake much more abruptly than John. Characteristically, his eyes snapped open, his body went rigid, and his mind ran through the same process John’s had, but in a micro-second. He reared up in astonishment and stared down at John, who merely smiled at him.

“Well, look at us,” John remarked.

Sherlock flailed about as if tangled in the sheets for a moment and then lunged out of the bed like a pelican fighting its way out of an errant fishing net.

“Oi,” John protested, and lazily tugged the covers back into relative order. He showed no inclination to get out of bed.

Sherlock gave him another glazed stare and then searched around for his robe, pulled it on wordlessly, and bolted from the room.

“That went well,” John murmured, and rolled over, contemplating simply sinking back into sleep. It was tempting, and yet… something nagged at him. Sleep. He was already well-rested, but sleep seemed to beckon like a siren on a rock. Sirens were notoriously dangerous. Some instinct prompted John to rise from the bed and follow Sherlock into the kitchen.

When he entered said kitchen, the detective was typing madly on John’s laptop, the robe sliding tantalizingly off one white shoulder. John smiled at the bare skin and then went to make some tea. It was several moments before Sherlock addressed him again, suddenly.

“John, do you remember being in the hospital within the last 48 hours?” 

John set Sherlock’s cup of tea in front of him and turned to stir his own. “Mmm… no, but I did a shift at the clinic on Wednesday. Does that count?”

Sherlock gave him a searching stare with those moonstone eyes, and then returned his attention to the laptop. “What day is it today, John?”

“Saturday.” John said immediately, popping some bread into the toaster.

“It’s Saturday for me too,” Sherlock said meditatively.

John gave him a look that was equal parts puzzlement and amusement. “Well, that’s good.”

“Mmm…. No,” breathed Sherlock. Then he sat back. “John, look at this welt on my head.”

John left his tea and went forward, happy for the excuse to sink his fingers into those black, soft curls. His happiness faded and concern took its place. “When did you do this? Sherlock… why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?!”

Sherlock pulled slightly away and John let his hands drop. The detective looked indecisive for a moment. Then he turned the laptop toward John. “Look at the date. Then read that.”

 

***

An hour later, they were both showered and dressed. Sherlock was pacing in the living room. John was in his chair, holding the note he’d left for himself up in his bedroom.

“How could it happen to us both, that’s…. that’s like lightning striking two trees side by side, or… neighbors winning the lottery on the same day!” John protested.

Sherlock’s eyes were reading invisible words on the rug. He shrugged. “We were both hit on the head. The odds of two people who received the same injury getting the same resulting condition aren’t nearly that astronomical. The question is not how did this happen. The question is how do we hide it?”

John was still rather hung up on the notion that he might never have a new memory again. “What, hide it?”

Sherlock stopped pacing, gave him a blazing look, and then started up again. From the window to the kitchen… to the window… to the kitchen. “Do you think anyone will hire a consulting detective who forgets everything whenever he sleeps? Do you think the clinic will continue to employ a doctor who cannot learn anything new, who may forget his own patients a day later? Who may not even be able to keep up with re-ordering supplies? We’re brain-damaged, John, both of us. I—“ 

Sherlock froze in horror.

“Your Mind Palace,” John realized. Sherlock looked ready to jump off a bridge. “But you can access everything that’s in it now, right?” He prompted. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and came to sit in his chair. He put his hands together and closed his eyes. After a long moment, he said, “I can access everything up to last Friday.”

“Alright, well, that’s good.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open again. “Give me the laptop.”

“If you’ve energy enough to pace a trail in the rug, you’ve energy enough to make one more trip to the kitchen for the laptop,” John pointed out.

“John,” Sherlock said, and gave him a look.

With an irritated sigh, John heaved himself out of the chair and retrieved the laptop.

Sherlock immediately deleted the document on which he’d typed all the information he’d left for himself the day before.

“Why’d you do that?” John asked, leaning over his shoulder.

“As I said, no one can know. No documents, no texts about this, nothing vulnerable to hackers or thieves.” Sherlock stated decisively. “We have to find a way to leave clues for ourselves that no one else can read.”

John stared down at him. “What… You’re mad. We’ll never pull this off.”

Sherlock closed the laptop. “I beg to differ, John. I’m a genius, and you’re… less of an idiot than the usual citizen. We’ll find a way. Now. Let’s think. How do we leave a code for ourselves that Mycroft can’t deduce? He knows far too much about me and my methods for me to—“

He turned to stare up at John.

“My memories,” John said, catching on after a minute. 

“Yes! John, who is your Redbeard?” Sherlock asked, voice growing rich with excitement. His eyes were lighting up now, and John couldn’t help but smile. Only Sherlock would look at a potentially life-long learning disability as yet another opportunity to exercise that nuclear intellect.

John shook his head helplessly. “I … don’t really have one—“

Sherlock lept up from his chair and bounded up the stairs to John’s bedroom. John followed uneasily. When he reached his bedroom door, he saw that Sherlock had already retrieved a box from under John’s bed and upended it on the covers. He chucked the empty cardboard box aside and began sorting through the pile of detritus.

John sighed and sat down next to the pile. Sherlock held up a small, cheap trophy questioningly. 

“Soccer team, first place, I was 12—“ John said. Sherlock dropped it and snatched up a book. 

“ _Brideshead Revisited,_ girlfriend got me to read it—“ Sherlock gave the book a sneer and tossed it aside. But John took it up, flipped through a few pages, and his eyes narrowed speculatively. He set the book at his side.

“What on earth is this?” Sherlock held up a ceramic cat with flowers carved all over its body. It was painted a shiny, chrome silver and was about the size of a large tin of coffee.

John gave a little smile, “Ah. That’s Belinda.” He took the cat and wiped the dust off her silver coat. “I used her as a paperweight, door stop, whatever… when I was young.”

“You named her Belinda?” Sherlock asked disbelievingly.

“I. Well. No. My sister gave her to me. Found her at a thrift store of all things—“

“What made your sister think a young boy would want a silver cat?” Sherlock sounded exasperated. 

John blushed. “When I was little, my favorite children’s book was a book called _No Flying In The House._ It was about a little girl named Annabelle who was half fairy and didn’t know it until an evil silver cat named Belinda taught her how to fly.”

“Why was she evil?” Sherlock asked, intrigued despite himself. 

“Because if Annabelle found out she was half-fairy, she would never settle for being a human child again, with a human family.” John explained meditatively.

Sherlock looked horrified, “And this was considered a negative outcome? That she embrace her powers and fulfill her true potential?”

John huffed, “Well, there was more to it than that—“

“I certainly hope so. A child abandoning all that made her special in order to blend in with the vast, teeming mediocrity around her—“

John gave Sherlock a keen look. “Fairies didn’t get to go to university or study chemistry.”

Sherlock drew his breath in, aware that he’d revealed a sore spot. “Yes. Well.”

John set Belinda next to him, along with the book. Sherlock continued sorting through John’s memories until he had settled upon some plan… apparently.

 

Soon, John found himself prowling about Marks and Spencer with a shopping list he only partially understood. Some items he’d put there himself. Others he couldn’t fathom at all. Obediently, however, he went down his list, checking off the items as he purchased them. 

Finally he stopped at an Italian café for a bit of lunch. Immediately his phone trilled.

_-Where are you? SH_

_-Getting a bite of pizza._ John texted back.

_-Hurry. Bring pizza. SH_

John sighed, ordered the pizza to go, and returned to Baker Street.

When the items were fully spread out on the floor, John stared down at them and shook his head. “Sherlock I just don’t… I don’t think this will work.”

“Mm. Go hang these,” Sherlock said, pushing a plastic bundle into John’s hands. John stuffed the last of his pizza into his mouth and went to follow instructions. If nothing else, he could still follow instructions, he thought grimly.

By the time all the items were carefully arranged about the house, it was nightfall again. Sherlock looked positively eager.

“We’ll have to go to bed now,” he announced, and John gave him a look. Sherlock was like a child on Christmas Eve, wanting to hurry off to bed so he could wake up in the morning and see that St Nicholas had come.

John wavered for an uncertain moment and then turned as if heading toward his bedroom.

“John. We have to sleep together.” Sherlock said imperiously.

John turned and did his best not to look delighted or relieved. “And why’s that?”

“You’ll be my first clue when I wake up in the morning,” Sherlock told him smugly. “Wear the pajamas I laid out for you on my bed. I’ll be there as soon as I’ve showered.”

“Will there be anything else, sir?” John muttered to himself as he passed Sherlock and went to the bedroom. But secretly he was beginning to catch Sherlock’s excitement. Could they follow a trail of breadcrumbs they’d left themselves? Could they create a system only they would understand? 

And this “we must share a bed from now on,” business, wasn’t that just a page right out of John’s nasty little fantasy book, hm? 

John’s smile vanished when he saw the pajamas laid out for him. The tops were from one set, red with little gold crowns on them (honestly, John hadn’t cared about the design, he just wanted soft and comfortable.) The bottoms were white with blue X’s on them. “What. This looks ludicrous—“ he protested.

Sherlock’s deep voice answered from the loo. “It’s a message to me.”

John came to stand outside the door and listened as the shower turned on. “What’s the message?”

“I can’t tell you, John, you might not sleep, and if you remember in the morning, you may give me hints unconsciously.”

“Oh for the love of pete” John grumbled, and reluctantly changed into the mis-matched pajamas. Oh, how wrong it felt. John scowled into the mirror. That’s right sexy, that is. You’ll get laid tonight for sure. He turned and crawled into the bed, lying back on the pillows and pulling up the covers to conceal his mis-matched bottoms.

Sherlock bounced in shortly after, hair still damp, and handed John a cup of water and a pill.

“What… this is a sleeping pill. You want me to take—“

“Both of us John. I already took mine.”

“Sherlock. We have head injuries. Sleeping pills and head injuries are probably not a good combination!” John protested.

Sherlock ignored him, setting his phone by his side of the bed, propped up such that the first thing he’d see would be the date and time. Then he crawled into the bed and wrapped himself around the smaller man in an affectionate embrace.

“Oh well, if you’re feeling friendly,” John commented.

“Take the pill John. For science!” Sherlock commanded, staring down at him.

John sank under the weight of him and swallowed the pill. “I must be barmy.”

He drank and put the empty glass on the table, and then took Sherlock in his arms. “So are you? Feeling friendly?”

Sherlock finally stilled. His eyes traced down over John’s face. “If I kiss you now, it will be our first kiss, and we’ll both forget it in the morning.” He said quietly.

John trailed his fingers over one flaring cheekbone. “No. We kissed on Friday.” His voice was equally hushed.

“Did we?” Sherlock whispered.

“We did.” John spread his legs and Sherlock sank between them. They drew each other tighter. 

“Can we have another first kiss?” Sherlock asked, and John’s eyes dropped to that upper lip, that sharp, deep Cupid’s bow. His own mouth was fairly tingling at the thought of it. He leaned up and their lips came together in a warm collision. That mouth was so unexpectedly soft. John slid a hand behind Sherlock’s neck and pulled him in tighter, his tongue joining in the loving exploration. The heat between them built up quickly, and suddenly Sherlock broke the kiss, panting slightly.

“We can’t… we can’t do anything that will make you change those pajamas,” he warned.

John sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. “You’d better get off me, then.”

“I can’t, John, we have to wake up in an embrace, like this morning. It will be a clue!” Sherlock informed him, eyes beginning to blink sleepily.

John groaned. “This is going to be torture.”

Sherlock gave a wicked smile and sank down on top of him. “Yes, rather.” He said, and wrapped himself more tightly around John.

“At least I won’t remember it.” John mused, and managed, even with Sherlock on top of him, to turn off the light.


	5. ... Figure Something Out

John awoke with the pleasant sensation of a heavy, warm weight wrapping him in loving safety. He turned his head and peered blurrily at the tangle of soft, black curls against his cheek.

My God, he thought, and carefully wrapped his arms around the half-naked man snuggled into him. My God, we must have done it—

Sherlock jerked awake, reared back and stared down at John in astonishment, and then kicked off the covers and retreated to his own side of the bed. His hand went up into his hair. Then his eyes narrowed and his fingers probed at his scalp for a moment.

“Uhm…” was all John had time to say. Sherlock turned and grabbed his cellphone, staring at the date. He froze for a minute, and then checked his texts. Then he dropped the phone and twisted back to stare at John.

“John, your pajamas don’t match.” He rumbled.

Of all the things to focus on about this situation, that had not been high on John’s priority list. He looked down. Well, Sherlock was right. How on earth had he managed to end up in red tops and white bottoms? Had he dressed in the dark? Had he gotten drunk last night?

John assessed himself. He didn’t feel hung-over.

Sherlock lifted the phone again. “Look,” he said, showing John the date and time. It was Wednesday the 12th. John stared. 

“No, it’s Saturday…” he protested.

“Yes,” Sherlock mused abstractedly. 

John’s stomach began to roil uneasily, but Sherlock was briskly assessing the situation.

“The last text I have is from Lestrade. It says to meet him at an address in Islington, but it’s from three days ago. Your pajamas have crowns and Xs. Kings… Cross. It’s clearly deliberate. Oh—“

Sherlock seemed suddenly transfixed by the curtains on the bedroom window. John turned to look at them. They were deep red, but shouldn’t they have been blue? They were blue the last time John looked.

“Curtains,” Sherlock breathed, and rose from the bed, shrugging into his robe. Below the curtains, on the desk, lay a copy of Hamlet.

Sherlock stared at the book and the curtains for a moment and then left the room, his robe billowing behind him. John struggled out of the tangled sheets and followed him.

“Sherlock if you’ve been experimenting on me again—“

He followed the taller man into the living room, barely catching Sherlock’s reply. “I haven’t. Well, I don’t think I have. Actually, I might have. Perhaps I have. Curtains. Hamlet. That’s death…”

Sherlock went to his skull. Next to it was a paperback novel he had never seen. He took it up in one graceful movement.

“Is this yours?” He asked John, turning to him.

“Um. No.” John answered, taking it in his hands. The title was _Belinda_ , the author Anne Rampling. The cover featured a girl on a carousel horse. A teenage girl, looking very sultry. It… wasn’t really the type of novel John read. He turned it over and back, then returned it to Sherlock. “Not mine.”

“But it’s a clue, John. I must have left it here.”

John shrugged. “Means nothing to me.”

Sherlock made a tour of the room, eyes darting about sharply. John opened his laptop and sat down with it. “My blog’s not updated since last week.” He remarked.

He checked his email messages. Several fan mails that had been opened and read already, though John had no memory of reading them.

“Is this Mycroft’s doing?” He ventured. Sherlock snorted.

John set the laptop aside impatiently. “Sherlock, we’ve lost five days.”

“Yes,” Sherlock mused. “I must have drugged us both. Hm. Odd. Don’t remember any such experiment…”

John stood. “I’m getting dressed.” He announced stiffly, and went up the stairs to his room with footsteps a little harder than they needed to be.

Sherlock seemed unaware for a moment of John’s departure, but then his eyes widened and he gasped. “John! Don’t touch anything!” He cried, and flew up the stairs after the doctor.

He needn’t have worried. John was standing in his room looking utterly non-plussed. Hanging from the mirror was a soccer jersey he had never seen before. His trophy from childhood was next to it on the dresser, in a sort of adolescent male display. Also there was a tin of dates, unopened. Over on the end table, the silver cat he’d used as a paperweight from childhood was sitting decoratively by his clock, as well as a copy of _Brideshead Revisited,_ opened and face down.

Sherlock took John by the shoulders and leaned in behind him, whispering into his ear.

“It’s a tableau, John, and it’s meant for you. What does this say to you?”

“I swear I will kick your arse for this, Sherlock,” John mentioned.

“Sh… just look. What do you see?”

John sighed. “Right. Alright, the cat is Belinda.”

“Like the book downstairs.” Sherlock reminded him.

John stepped forward into the room. He picked up the book and noted the scene it was opened to. Then he picked up Belinda and turned her upside down. On the bottom it read “To My Captain with Love, -S” and the date April 7th, 2014.

“That wasn’t there before,” John commented, showing it to Sherlock.

“Deduce, John, deduce! These are your memories, your associations.”

“Alright, well… Um… this scene of the book is considered by many to be … um… homoerotic although nothing is ever certain… Sebastian and Charles… that’s Captain Charles Ryder—you never read this book?”

“No. Continue.” Sherlock commanded, eyes piercingly clear, and nearly as silver as the cat.

“Alright, well, people have speculated about these two characters rather like they speculated about you and me for years. The message on the cat seems to be a reference to them, since it’s next to this book, but Captain and S would be taken to refer to you and me, and the date suggests that you gave it to me last Friday.”

“Which neither of us remembers.”

“And of course, you didn’t give it to me, it’s mine, I already had it.”

“So it’s a code. A secret message. Something only you and I would be aware of… I suspect we … on Friday evening, we must have…” Sherlock seemed to run out of courage.

John licked his lips nervously and looked at the jersey, the trophy, and the tin of dates. Suddenly his face cleared.

“Oh. _Fifty First Dates_. Anterograde amnesia. Oh, God!” Horror stricken, John sank to sit on the bed, the silver cat still clutched in his hand. “Oh God, Sherlock—“

Sherlock was staring at the jersey. It had the number 50 on the back. “I don’t understand.”

“You should put that on a t-shirt,” John said bitterly. Sherlock looked at him.

“It was a movie about a woman with anterograde amnesia, Sherlock. Every time she fell asleep, her memory was wiped clean back to the point she’d had the accident that caused the brain damage.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply, “Oh, that’s clever, John. Fifty… first place trophy… dates. Yes… you must have done this. I wouldn’t catch that reference. Why would we—“

John looked down at the cat and suddenly thrust his fingers into the hole in the bottom of the hollow ceramic figure. “I used to hide a bit of weed up here,” he admitted, and fished around until he found a piece of paper. He pulled it out, unfolded it, and read it. Then, his face pale, he handed it to Sherlock.

 

Two hours later, they were seated at a sidewalk café near Bart’s, their table in direct April sunlight. But it was still rather cool. John was staring down at his chili.

“We have to continue as normal, John,” Sherlock spoke in a low voice, his coat wrapped tightly about him, and his eyes darting about occasionally. “We have to go out. We have to carry on.”

“Keep calm and carry on,” John said woodenly.

Sherlock gave an acceding grimace. “I have to take cases. You have to… you have to resign from the clinic.” He decided abruptly.

John’s head snapped up.

“Too much could go wrong while we’re apart. We mustn’t be apart any more, John. We are each other’s memories, we are each other’s support system.” Sherlock declared. “You are my crutch. I am your umbrella.”

John inhaled and looked around. He had no real objection to becoming Sherlock’s smaller, less brilliant Siamese twin. In fact, it was shameful how utterly ready he was to give up what little individual space he had. John felt compelled to defend it simply because… surely he should.

“Sherlock—“

The detective leaned forward, fixing John with his unearthly stare. “John. No one must know. You could very easily slip up at the clinic. And it is more vital than ever that we protect one another.”

“But—“

“John, I need you.” Sherlock said.

John’s eyes stretched wide and he stilled, more absorbing Sherlock’s gaze than truly returning it. Sherlock continued as if he hadn’t just said one of the most startling things John had ever heard (which was an accomplishment in a household that had heard such phrases as “The syrup is behind that bag of thumbs.”)

“John, imagine if one of us were to meet his end now. Imagine me waking up every morning wondering where you are, going to look for you, and finding out that you were gone forever. Finding out afresh every day. The rest of my life would just be one repeating day, which is the worst day of my existence.”

John’s gaze drifted aside for a moment, imagining that. “Groundhog Day in Hell,” he said.

Sherlock squinched up his nose. “Pardon?”

“Nothing. Right. Alright. I’ll… put in my notice at the clinic, but—“

“We’ll earn enough. I’ll get money from my trust fund. We’ll survive.” Sherlock assured him, and leaned back.

John ate a few more bites of his chili, and Sherlock managed to taste his own.

“Our next order of business is to speed up the process by which we come to our conclusions each morning,” Sherlock decided. “We wake up, I see the date and the text, I notice your pajamas—“

“Do I have to wear those every night?” John protested.

“Yes. The curtains and Hamlet lead me to the skull and Belinda… once we are in your room, we find the final clues.” Sherlock mused. “We need to speed up the process of getting us both up the stairs.” 

John looked at him for a moment and then returned to his chili. The very set of his jaw said “not my problem.”

“Come, John, they have to be your associations or Mycroft might deduce them any time he’s in the sitting room.”

John kept eating.

“Stairs. What makes you think of stairs? Going up stairs?” Sherlock persisted.


	6. Alright Then.

John stood well back from Sherlock. They were at Tate Museum, and it occurred to him that Sherlock, tightly tailored, from behind, staring at one of Magritte’s _Man in Bowler Hat_ series, was an amusing study in recurring themes. On an impulse, John took his cellphone out and photographed Sherlock staring at the Magritte.

“This one?” The detective asked doubtfully.

“Mm. Really, any of them with the hat,” John said carelessly, and they turned to find the gift shop. “Wait,” John amended, and he stepped close to Sherlock, his head fitting under the other man’s chin. He took a quick photo (“Selfies, John, really,”) and admired it for a moment.

“We won’t remember this,” he pointed out.

Sherlock grew still and looked down at the tiny snapshot on John’s screen. John was looking up into the camera with concentration. Sherlock was scowling slightly in bemusement. Behind them was part of Magritte’s _Ceci n’est pas une pipe._

They both stared a moment, and then John put the phone away and they continued on to the gift shop.

As they left, John said, “And one more stop for that DVD.”

Some hours later, Sherlock and John were wearily making their way up the stairs at Baker Street, when Sherlock’s cell gave a trill. He pulled it out as John opened the door.

“Lestrade wants the paperwork.” He said tiredly, as they entered and shed their coats.

“Tell him, tomorrow—“ John said, and added, “We’ll leave ourselves a note. That’s not unusual, just a little something to remind ourselves of some task, yeah?”

“Mm. And you should update your blog about the case of the kidnapped plasticware CEO. Must carry on as normal, as I said,” Sherlock added.

 

***

 

Sherlock awoke in the morning with a feeling of almost vibrating contentment and pleasure in his chest. For a second, he merely lay on the bed of firm, breathing warmth beneath him, happiness nearly ringing in his ears, before he reared back in astonishment and stared down at the sight between his two braced arms. John blinked and smiled sleepily up at him. His pajama top was partially unbuttoned and there was… definitely a lovebite on his neck.

“Well, what’ve we been up to, mm?” John said in a husky voice, his eyes roaming over Sherlock’s face and neck.

Sherlock looked around wildly. His cellphone was propped oddly, and he quickly shifted off of John to grab it. The date read Thursday the 13th. Sherlock sucked in his breath and dropped the phone. His hand went into his hair for a moment. He scanned the room again, his eyes going from the curtains to John’s mismatched pajamas. He took up his phone again and checked his text messages.

“Say,” John spoke tentatively, “I’m sorry if I … did anything you didn’t want or… er… I don’t seem to really recall exactly what… did we drink last night?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over John’s pajamas. Crowns. Crosses. Kings Cross. Text: Islington, 4 days ago. Curtains. Hamlet. Oh! Death!... alas poor Yorick—

He lunged from the bed and only John’s “Oh. Well, hello there…” made Sherlock realize he was naked. With as much dignity as possible, he found the discarded shorts on the floor by the bed, and stepped into them with such alacrity he nearly pitched forward. Then he yanked on his blue housecoat, gave John a warning glare, and went to find the skull. Behind him, John gave a satisfied stretch, and then looked rather puzzled. He reached for his own cell phone and a moment later Sherlock heard it clatter back on the end table. It was only seconds before John came barreling through the kitchen to the sitting room.

“What did you do?!” John blazed.

Sherlock ignored him, his eyes flitting about the mantle above the hearth. John turned to look as well. There was the skull. Next to it was postcard with a picture of Magritte’s _Man in Bowler Hat_ upon it. Next to that, a DVD of the movie _Gosford Park._ And finally, a rather lurid looking novel titled _Belinda._

John and Sherlock stared at the peculiar set up tensely. To an observer, it was merely a selection of random items one might find either propped or abandoned on a messy mantle in the home of two bachelors. But to them, most of those items were definitely out of place.

“Who sent the postcard?” John asked uneasily. Sherlock picked it up and turned it over. It hadn’t come through the mail, there was no address, no postage. But in John’s handwriting it said, “In case I don’t see you, good afternoon, good evening, and good night.”

John registered that, looked at the picture and the DVD case and murmured distractedly, “Stairs.”

Sherlock looked at him alertly. “What stairs?”

John shook his head, and Sherlock pressed toward him urgently. “Why does this make you think of stairs?”

John took a deep breath. “Well, at the end of this movie called _The Truman Show,_ Truman is standing at the top of these stairs that lead to a door and he says that “Good afternoon, good evening, and good night” line. Then in this other movie,” he pointed at the DVD of _Gosford Park_ as if afraid to touch it, “there’s a character standing at the bottom of a flight of stairs, looking up it, and he’s wearing a bowler hat… and he looks like a Magritte painting. Kind of.”

Sherlock appeared to absorb this for a moment. Then his eyes lit up. He turned with a whirl of blue housecoat and fled up the stairs to John’s room with John in hot pursuit.

Approximately two minutes later, they were both seated on John’s bed. John held the silver cat in one hand and a piece of curled notebook paper in the other. They both looked dazed. 

After a moment, John said, “How many times do you think we’ve been through this?”

Sherlock had wrapped one arm about himself and sat hunched, the other hand tapping distractedly on his own lips. “I don’t know. The note looks as though it’s been rolled and unrolled more than once.”

They brooded a bit more. Then John stood and said, “Right. Well. I say we add to the note.” He rummaged around in the bureau by his bed until he found a pencil and then sat again and wrote at the bottom of the note, “April 13th, message received. Probably not the first time.” Then he rolled it up and stuffed it back up inside the cat.

Sherlock watched him, chewing his lower lip. “We’re going to need a better system.”

John put Belinda back carefully. “Oh, I don’t know. Seems like this is working.”

“Yes, but time is going to go by. It’ll be May, September, December, 2015, 2016. We need a place to keep a record of things.”

“Can’t we just type it up on my blog?” John asked. 

Sherlock winced. “Yes, some of it, but… but for our personal edification, and in a manner Mycroft mustn’t find out, a manner no one must find out—“

John turned to Sherlock and, after a moment’s hesitation, put an arm around him. “He’s not the enemy, you know. I don’t think he’s just waiting for the opportunity to lock you in some Swiss sanitarium. He’s helped us out before…” John trailed off.

Sherlock curled up tighter and his head drooped. “His help always comes with a price tag, John. Let’s save our money for when we really need it.”

Put that way, well… John took the opportunity to rub Sherlock’s long back comfortingly for a moment. 

“Mm.” Sherlock rumbled, and then said, “We need a notebook, like a diary, handwritten, both of us contributing, and hidden in a place no one can find it.”

John kept his hand on Sherlock’s back, since his friend had not objected. In fact, if John weren’t mistaken, Sherlock was rather leaning into the embrace. Ever so slightly, as if afraid of being rebuffed. John slid a bit closer and wrapped his arm around Sherlock in a clear claiming move. His friend sank into it for a moment. John squeezed him, his heart swelling up a bit.

“Alright, then, where’ll we hide it?”

Without answering, Sherlock blinked and then his face took on what John thought of as that look. The detective abruptly stood. “Come, John. We’ve got some shopping to do, and paperwork to complete at New Scotland Yard—“ Sherlock caught sight of his own reflection in John’s mirror and stepped forward, staring at his own neck in affronted fascination. The lovebite on John’s neck was nothing to the one on his own swanlike throat.

“John.” He said.

John stepped up next to him and tipped his head consideringly. “Oh yes. That’s my work, I can tell. See that bit on either side that makes it look a bit like Saturn with a ring around it? Or… oh, never mind, you deleted the solar system.”

John went down the stairs, leaving Sherlock appraising his neck in the mirror, wide-eyed. 

“I’m going to shower first,” John called back.


	7. Keep Calm and Carry On

While Sherlock showered, John sat down at his laptop and powered it up. He was first startled, then pleased to see that the wallpaper had been changed from a scenic shot of a Tahitian sunset to an oddly artistic photo of Sherlock, from behind, staring at the Magritte painting that matched the postcard. Looked like Tate Museum. John nodded, approving of this bit of reinforcement from the John of yesterday, or the day before. 

After admiring it for a moment, he brought up his blog. The thumbnail photo had been changed from the picture of his RAMC coffee mug to a selfie of himself and Sherlock. There was a new entry. It was clearly his writing style, the case of the plasticware CEO. The title was _Memento of a Marriage._ John was rather pleased with his own cleverness. A reader would think his title a reference to the lipstick smear in the wedding ring, but to John, the title was a definite nudge to himself, from himself.

This was clearly the way to go, seeding their normal life with hints and tips, connections and clues, and evidence of continued activity, of their developing relationship. And all so very covert! 

To John, actually, it was bit much, this nervous attempt to conceal it all from Mycroft. He doubted anything could be concealed from Mycroft. But Sherlock was determined.

John sighed and closed the laptop. The paperwork they were to fill out had to do with the case in Islington, and he was unsure how Sherlock was going to handle his memory loss in this area. After a moment’s reflection, John packed up the laptop in its carrying case with the intent of taking it with him to NSY. If he was going to continue to blog about Sherlock’s cases, he would have to do so before the slate was wiped clean.

 

***

 

Lestrade lit up when they entered. John set his laptop on an empty chair and unzipped his coat, standing casually with his hands in his pockets. Sherlock remained bundled in his coat and scarf, which he occasionally tugged at nervously to cover Saturn.

“There you two are! All recovered, then?” Lestrade asked, coming around to give Sherlock a clap on the shoulder. “Look at you. Three days ago you were in a coma, now here you are like nothing at all.”

John and Sherlock looked at each other. Coma? The note said nothing about a coma. Clearly they needed to leave themselves more detailed messages. But they both held firmly to the policy they agreed upon before leaving Baker Street: ask no questions. 

“Yes, well. It’s merely transport,” Sherlock said, after a moment. 

Lestrade gave a disbelieving huff. “Glad you think so, mate. And you’re one indestructible bastard, I have to say. If I hadn’t landed on top of you and that coat, I’d have been in hospital along with the two of you. Thanks for that, anyway!” The inspector grinned boyishly.

John recognized the three blinks Sherlock permitted as the closest thing to a startle reflex the detective allowed. But to himself, he thought “Greg fell through the floor with us. Put that in the blog.”

“Right, then,” John declared with determined brightness. “You had some paperwork for us?”

“Oh, here.” Lestrade turned and snatched up a folder from the mess on his desk. He handed it to John out of habit. “While he’s doing that, would you mind taking a look at something down in the morgue?” He asked the detective. Sherlock assented calmly. Lestrade turned to John with a roguish grin. “Say, sorry about your neck, Mate. I must have bruised you with my foot when we fell.”

John held the file with one hand and felt the back of his neck with the other. Had he hurt his neck? He saw Lestrade give Sherlock a wink before striding out the door with a “Help yourself to some coffee.” 

When John looked back at Sherlock, the taller man’s face was slightly pink.

“What?” John asked. Sherlock gave a hint of an eyeroll and stepped close to John, lifting his fingers to the lovebite on the shorter man’s neck. It was clear to see.

John breathed Sherlock’s scent in. It was a bit heady, to have him standing so close, and staring down at John so meaningfully. His cool fingers made John’s skin tingle, and his stomach felt a bit like it was floating up in his abdomen. But in a good way.

“Ah,” John said, and his body gave the kinetic version of a stammer as he tried to urge himself to take the paperwork, go to the conference table, sit himself down and fill it out. He finally managed it when Sherlock withdrew his fingers and turned to follow Lestrade down to the morgue.

Using Lestrade’s notes in the file as a guide, John managed to fill out the forms and then type up a draft for his blog on the laptop before the other two returned. He mulled over the next title. He should continue the theme begun with the “Memento” reference in the previous title. He finally settled on “The Oubliette in Islington,” and made several droll remarks about the three of them tumbling through the floor into the basement (it was like an oubliette, see?) and Lestrade landing atop them.

When Sherlock and Lestrade returned, John was just finishing both a cup of coffee and his draft. He wouldn’t upload it till he and Sherlock had perused it. In fact… upon reflection… he gave Sherlock a pointed look and, when he had the other man’s attention, flicked his own eyes down to the blog and then over to Lestrade, who was shuffling through a series of photographs and consulting brusquely with someone on his mobile.

Sherlock gave a barely perceptible nod and when Lestrade lowered the phone, John turned his laptop toward him. “Say, would you, um—“ he cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. Asking help from a third person, even someone of as long-standing trustworthiness as Greg, was mildly threatening even to John. He had a sudden sense of how horrific it must be to Sherlock to need anyone at all. “—check this? You were the only one awake after we went through the floor, and I’m a little cloudy on some of the details.”

“Oh, sure.” Greg came over and read the draft rapidly while Sherlock drifted over the window to stare out at the spring day. 

After a moment, Greg said, “Yeah, that’s about it. Say, how did you know it was the nephew?” He asked Sherlock.

John and Sherlock both froze. Then Sherlock turned calmly away from the window. “You don’t remember?” He asked Lestrade rather haughtily.

The inspector shook his head. “You looked at his house keys, said something about pipes and ashes, and bolted out the door.”

Sherlock strode over the table, picked up Lestrade’s notes and perused them for a moment and said, “Ah, yes. His house keys indicated that he’d used them to dig the ash out of the bowl of his pipe. The crime scene was liberally sprinkled with ash where he’d waited for his victim, really Inspector, you should be telling me this. I was in a coma for a day but sometimes I think you’ve spent most of your life in one. Come, John,” he finished, and turned to the door.

Lestrade looked after him and flushed a bit. Sherlock was over-compensating, John knew, but he didn’t need to hurt a good man. John was afraid to make any remarks, however, other than the most routine and mundane ones, for fear that three or four days from now, Lestrade would bring it up again and John would have no idea what he was talking about.

Sherlock, characteristically, didn’t look back to see if John was following, but instead swept through the door grandly and turned toward the lift. John settled for an apologetic look and a sigh. “That knock on the head didn’t do much for his manners,” he offered, and Lestrade looked as if he agreed. John left, hustling to catch up to his partner.

 

When they finally returned to Baker Street after another stealthy shopping binge, John was loaded down with bags. Trudging up the stairs--Sherlock at least at the decency to hold the door for him--John hauled their loot in the door and dumped the whole mess on the sitting room rug, much as he had done the first time (although of course he did not remember this.)

Their stash included two DVDs, a coffee table book, a notebook, and a color printer. Sherlock busied himself with hooking up the printer while John went wearily into the kitchen to scavenge a meal for himself, and see if he could get some food down the other man.

“I’m making stir-fry,” he announced, digging what vegetables he could find out of the fridge and cleaning them off before settling them on the chopping board. Sherlock didn’t answer, and John gave a mental shrug and set about chopping them up. When a nice pile of raw crudité was ready for the wok, John paused in his work to check on Sherlock. There had been a long and unaccustomed silence in the sitting room, and like a mother with a toddler, John went on the alert when it was “too quiet.”

He stepped nervously to the sitting room and then stopped with a smile, drying his hands on a towel. Sherlock was sitting in the middle of the floor, his long legs splayed out, and a pile of printer parts scattered about between his knees. He was reading the printer’s assembly directions with a scowl.

John quietly reached for his cell and took a photo. Sherlock caught the movement and gave John a threatening glare. John grinned widely and took a second photo. Sherlock returned broodingly to his directions, and John retreated to the kitchen to finish dinner. We are a couple, he admitted. Well, the lovebites on the neck rather confirmed that, and the lazy, sated sensation he’d woken with that morning.

Pity not to remember it, though, John thought as he stirred the chopped vegetables. It’s like every time is the first time. Then he lifted his head for a moment. Now that was a thought. Every time is the first time.


	8. Keeping Calm Here

John awoke in Sherlock’s bed. The morning sun was streaming in. He and Sherlock were curled and tangled about each other, nude and wanton as a French painting. John’s eyes fluttered a bit as he tried to sort it out. Sherlock awoke while John was still sorting. They stared at each other for a frozen moment, and then John smiled. “Well, alright then.” He said.

Sherlock looked dazed. John stretched and took a deep breath, still trying to get his head out of the fog. When he couldn’t, he felt rather guilty. Sherlock was staring shell-shocked at the ceiling and here John couldn’t even remember exactly what they’d done. John wrapped a reassuring arm around his friend (lover?) and pulled them back into a tangle as he mentally assessed his own physical state. Well, his arsehole wasn’t sore, so whatever happened, he hadn’t been on the receiving end. 

Oh Christ, Sherlock looked like… like…

John cuddled him tighter and planted several kisses on the other man’s neck. “You okay?” He whispered huskily.

“—yes. Of course, yes. Quite.” Sherlock managed, as John caressed his long torso and then let his hand wander down into the thatch of dark hair below Sherlock’s navel.

For a few moments they lay there, John’s wandering hand growing increasingly bold, Sherlock’s breathing growing more erratic and heavy, and both of them hardening against each other.

John took Sherlock in one hand and fondled him in movements that seemed almost natural and intuitive. Sherlock gave a strangled groan, and with a wicked smile, John decided he probably owed someone a little something. Without further ado, John slithered down under the covers, pulled them over his head, inserted himself between Sherlock’s legs, and brought all of his talents to bear. He’d never done it before, but… it was actually not difficult to figure out, he thought, running his tongue around the velvety head as Sherlock’s hips tightened and twitched under his hand. Almost like he knew what he was doing automatically. John wrapped his other hand around the base of Sherlock’s cock and sucked him as deep into his throat as he could manage.

“Arhh! John Oh God John—“ Sherlock cried brokenly, and after a few more moments of rhythmic, ardent sucking, he convulsed and came undone completely. After a moment, John emerged from under the covers, wrapped his now-slick hand about himself, sank his face into the curls at Sherlock’s nape, and ground himself against that gorgeous arse until he was satisfied.

They both lay panting. 

Finally, John said, “Now that’s the way to wake up.”

Sherlock turned and stared at him wordlessly, his lips red from biting them when he’d tried not to cry out, his eyes wide and rather more shocked than less. Then his eyes went to the curtains and he sat up abruptly.

“What?” John asked.

Sherlock snatched up his phone, stared at it for a moment, checked his messages, and nearly catapulted out of the bed.

“What? What are you so frantic about?” John said.

Sherlock gave John a haunted look and then searched for his pajamas on the floor. He found them and stumbled into them. Then he yanked on his robe and ran to the sitting room.

John lay back in the bed, puzzling. Why couldn’t he remember last night? Why was Sherlock acting so strangely? Why… why were the curtains red??

Slowly, John sat up and stared at the curtains. Weren’t they supposed to be blue? He wasn’t sure. He never spent much time in Sherlock’s room before, but he could have sworn they were blue.

On the table beside the bed, John’s cellphone trilled. He picked it up. Text from Sherlock, for pete’s sake, texting from the next room.

_John, I need you to come look at this. –SH_

Rolling his eyes, John stood and was about to toss the phone aside when he stopped to check the time. That’s when he saw the date.

 

A few moments later, they were seated on John’s bed, side by side in their pajamas, staring at the floor. In John’s hand was the terse note, with the follow-up date of April 13th. For a moment, they simply sat in silence. Finally John spoke. “How are we supposed to…?”

Sherlock’s gaze was far away, but suddenly it sharpened and refocused on a DVD case peeking out from under John’s end table. He leaned forward and picked it up. It had a picture of three women on the cover.

“ _The Hours_?” He asked John. 

John shook his head. “Heard of it. Never saw it.”

The case was open, and Sherlock looked inside. Then a fierce smile crossed his lips. The DVD inside the case didn’t match the case.

_“The Notebook_!” He breathed, touching the silver disc with one finger. “ _The Notebook_ is inside _The Hours_! Oh, that’s marvelous, we have a notebook, it’s just hidden. It’s hidden inside… what are the hours?” He asked John eagerly, eyes shining.

John stared at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, I’m merely—alright, I might be.” Sherlock conceded unexpectedly. Then he seized John’s alarm clock with every apparent intention of prying it open.

“Wait, Sherlock, stop! There’s no notebook inside that little clock.”

“You remember where you put it?” Sherlock looked amazed.

“No! No, I just… if this is me, if this is my doing, then the notebook will be in a very normal sort of hide-in-plain-sight place. It’s a book, it’ll be with other books. Maybe inside one, or under one—“

Back downstairs they went, their footsteps sounding like a small stampede. Sherlock perused the bookcase. “Hours…. Hours…” he murmured, his eyes scanning it rapidly.

John glanced over at the table by his chair and started smiling. “I found it.” He said smugly, not moving.

Sherlock craned his long neck—was that a fading lovebite? It was—to stare at John.

“Where?” He demanded. John merely smiled.

Sherlock flopped into his chair, which accepted him with a leathery exhalation, as if it had been punched in the stomach unexpectedly. He put his hands together and narrowed his eyes at John.

“It’s not the title.” He deduced.

“Nope.” John admitted. “The movie is about Virginia Woolf, in part. Famous English Writer, I’ll have you know—“

“I know who Virginia Woolf is,” Sherlock informed him quickly, enunciating the way he did when he was growing impatient. Which was.. usually. His pale eyes were fairly burning under his thick brows.

“Ah. Well. I only ever read one of her books. At uni.” John said blithely. He let Sherlock’s gears whir helplessly for a moment, and then stepped to his own chair. He sat down and moved the folded newspaper aside, revealing a rather large coffee table book full of photos of lighthouses. John and Sherlock gave each other a long look that was rather inappropriately merry considering the gravity of the situation. 

Then they both leaned forward in their chairs, opened the book, and found the single piece of notebook paper inside the front cover. It had been folded in half, length-ways, and bore the date April 13th. On one side was John’s writing, on the other was Sherlock’s.

John’s side read:

_1\. Read your blog, it tells about the accident. Note the titles. Any new cases, start taking notes immediately, write up the blog before you go to sleep or you’ll lose it all._

_2\. Don’t let Sherlock make you wear the mismatched pajamas. He doesn’t need that King’s Cross reference and you’ve worn them 3 days already and they need washing._

_3\. Ask about Mrs. Hudson’s sister and write it down! Write down everything significant._

_4\. Take pictures often. Load them on the computer, or print them out. It’s a perfectly normal thing to do, and no one will look and think “Oh look, they’re taking pictures, they must both have anterograde amnesia.”_

_5\. You already filled out the forms for Greg on the last two cases in your blog._

_6\. Nobody knows about this. Not Mrs. Hudson, not Harry, not Greg, not Myc—well, he probably does._

_7\. You resigned from the clinic because you might slip up and reveal the issue._

_8\. Sherlock is ticklish!_ (Sherlock gave a huff when he read that.)

 

Sherlock’s side read:

_1\. Keep John with you at all times._

_2\. Do not let Mycroft catch the slightest hint of this._

 

Under the paper was a printed out photo of Sherlock scowling as he tried to assemble the printer. John chuckled appreciatively. “Aw, look at you. Oh, look at your neck! That’s been there, then.”

They carefully put the paper and photo back inside the lighthouse book and sat for another reflective moment. Then John decided there was nothing for it but tea. He went to the kitchen, took down two mugs, and began the process. Sherlock went to the window and took up his violin, as if displaying to anyone watching that Things Were Perfectly Normal Here.

As the kettle boiled, John called out over the music, “Say, does this whole system have to be so complex? I mean… you see the curtains and Hamlet, they lead you to the skull, the skull leads us up the stairs, my room tells us it’s amnesia and we’re lovers, and then sends us back down the stairs looking for the notebook. The notebook says check the blog…”

The violin played on. John poured the water and added the sugar to both cups.

“How about we just put the notebook by the bed?” He said, returning to the sitting room with the two steeping cups.

Sherlock lowered the violin. “Boring.” 

John sat down and eyed his friend. “Think so, do you?”

Sherlock stared out the window for a moment. “This way is better. This way is… not so abrupt. We find out in increments. We realize we still have memories and powers of deduction, and skills. Besides,” he lifted the violin again, “Mycroft will never figure this out.”

John wasn’t so sure of that, but he drank his tea in silence. Sherlock abused the violin for a bit, and then came to join him.

“So…” John began hesitantly. “About this morning—“

“Yes, about this morning,” Sherlock said rather coolly. “You didn’t seem to be suffering from amnesia at all this morning.”

John lowered his cup and stared. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sherlock’s hands looked rather tight on the arms of his chair. He was doing his best to look calm, slightly bored even, but his knuckles were a little white.

“I awoke with no memory beyond leaving Mycroft’s car a week ago. You seemed to awaken fully cognizant of the fact that we are lovers now.” Sherlock said, staring at him.

John huffed a little. “Well, waking up naked in the bed with you was my first clue.”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and John grinned. “Seems like you had some clues of your own,” he remarked cheekily, and Sherlock gave him an evil glare.

“Bit sensitive?” John asked brightly.

Sherlock launched off the chair. “I am taking a shower,” he announced, and sailed past John toward the loo. John chuckled to himself for rather a long time, it must be admitted. He had one advantage over the great Sherlock Holmes: he wasn’t entirely unaccustomed to waking up in bed with someone and not completely remembering the night before.

_Ah, that Army training,_ he thought, and chuckled again. Finally, when he’d milked the thought for all the humor it could provide, John went back up the stairs to dig out fresh clothes. He stepped into his room and looked around at the tableau they’d left for themselves. The DVD case with _The Notebook_ he decided to leave on the bed. More obvious. 

It struck him that Sherlock rather relied on dust patterns, so John carefully wiped off the DVD case, the trophy, the tin of dates, the book, and Belinda, and left the rest untouched.

Then he went to his wardrobe and picked out some clean clothes. Turning to his dresser, he opened a drawer for some clean underpants, and stopped. Inside his dresser drawer was a small gift box wrapped in expensive gold paper. It was about the size of a coffee cup, but thinner… it might hold a small bottle of cologne. John picked it up, his fingers drifting across the rough silk of the gold ribbon. Attached was a small card. 

_To John, from Mycroft. Open in case of emergency._

John regarded it for a suspicious moment. The only emergency he could conceive of that would be sufficient to make him accept a gift from Mycroft was if Sherlock were in danger. John moved the box to the drawer where he kept his gun. He shut it with a sigh, shaking his head.

_My life,_ he thought. Then he gathered his fresh clothes and went back downstairs.


	9. Carrying On, Then.

After their showers, Sherlock settled himself at the kitchen table, put on his safety goggles, and busied himself with mixing hydrogen peroxide with vinegar and soaking a cow’s tongue in it. John regarded him for a moment and then opened the refrigerator door. Right. Time for a trip to Tesco. He took a quick mental inventory and then gathered up his keys with a jingle.

“Need anything while I’m out?” He asked.

“Scotch tape,” Sherlock murmured, poking at the tongue with a fork.

John waited. Usually it was a bit more exotic than that. Six different kinds of scotch tape, for example. But no further stipulations were indicated, so he gave his keys another absent-minded jingle and then left for the store. He was nearly out the door when Mrs. Hudson emerged from her own flat. She was dressed in black, and her eyes looked rather red. John froze.

“Um,” he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to know what the black portended, so he settled upon a sympathetic tone. “Mrs. Hudson, I’m just off to Tesco, isn’t there anything I can pick up for you?” He asked gently.

She gave a sniffle. “Oh. No. Thank you, dear… I’ll be quite alright. Not as if it was a surprise, you know,” she said with a weak smile. John was nearly afraid to breathe.

“Yes, but still…” he ventured carefully.

“Yes,” Mrs. Hudson admitted. “She was my big sister,” she said in a quavery voice. John went to her and gave her a hug, suddenly aware of how very thin and fragile her shoulders were. After a few more trembling sniffs, she released him. “Her son is picking me up in a moment. The service is this afternoon, you know, and I’ll spend the night down there. So if Sherlock wants to blow something up, now is the time.”

John smiled at her weak joke. “I’ll wait with you till he comes,” he offered, and the two of them stepped out into the sunlight.

 

After John saw Mrs. Hudson safely off, he continued on to Tesco. He strolled the aisles with a basket over his arm, feeling rather comforted by this so-very-normal activity. Life was going on then. Did it matter if it was Friday the 7th or Friday the 14th? He and Sherlock were together, they understood the situation, they had a system. They had sex. He couldn’t remember much of it, but by God they were having it! John smiled to himself. Turns out a blow job isn’t so much of a “job” after all. In fact, he fancied he’d done it rather well. Actually, it hadn’t even seemed that foreign, for some reason.

John paused in the spices aisle, pondering this. It really hadn’t seemed that foreign. Hm. Then he shook off the notion. Sugar. We need more sugar. They’d been going through sugar rather briskly… lots of panicked tea-making, he deduced with amusement. _Oh, look at me, I’m deducing. Sherlock’s rubbing off on me. Actually, I rubbed off on Sherlock._ John gave a little giggle and then sobered, glancing around to make sure no one saw him cackling like a maniac at a bag of sugar.

He picked up some scotch tape for Sherlock. Then he picked up some scotch for himself. He passed the greeting cards section of the store and paused. Might do to get a card for Mrs. Hudson. John perused the selection until he found a card with little purple-blue flowers that seemed somehow appropriate. 

Suddenly he imagined Mrs. Hudson a week from now thanking him and Sherlock for the card and them both staring at her blankly. Crikey, how awful. Let’s see… ah. John took up a second card from the display pocket, identical to the first, and added it to the basket. Then he girded his loins, so to speak, and went forward to do battle with the chip & pin machine.

“I’m ready for you, you bloody bastard,” he breathed, and began scanning his items.

When he got back to the flat, Sherlock wasn’t there. John nearly hyper-ventilated on the spot. “What happened to Keep John With You At All Times?” he roared to the room at large, his bags still in hand.

As if in answer, his phone trilled in his pocket. John sighed, put the bags on the worktop (because there was a hideously corroded cow’s tongue marinating in a salad bowl on the table) and dug his phone out. His hands, he noted, were trembling. 

_At NSY. Don’t panic. –SH_

John sagged against the worktop in relief. _Alright,_ he thought. _Get hold of yourself. We go on as normal._ He righted himself and set to putting the groceries away. Veggies on the non-human-flesh shelf of the fridge, right. Tea in the cupboard. Sugar in the—

John paused. There was a very large bag of sugar in the cupboard already. Much larger than they’d normally buy. “Huh.” He said. He'd forgotten that was there. That was from the days of Mary. He shrugged and put the new, smaller bag behind it and poured more from the open bag into the nearly empty sugar bowl. Well, not like they won’t need it eventually, he rationalized.

Finally, he was down to the two sympathy cards. He wrote a short but heartfelt note in one, and then he copied it exactly on the other. He then put one in the envelope, ran it down the stairs, and propped it on the little table under the lamp so Mrs. Hudson would find it tomorrow when she came home. Then he went back up the stairs, and at the bottom of the card, wrote “This is a copy of the card I left downstairs for Mrs. H on the death of her sister, April 14th.”

Then he tucked it into the lighthouse book under the piece of notebook paper, and the photo of Sherlock disemboweling the printer. It occurred to him then to add a note to his side of the notebook paper, and he did so.

When he was finished, John moved restlessly about the flat, eager to do something else that would benefit tomorrow’s version of himself.

Oh. He picked up his cell and texted Sherlock about Mrs. Hudson’s sister. The reply was immediate.

_Noted. –SH_

John resumed pacing. Sherlock was down at NSY, saying and doing things he would have no memory of tomorrow. And John wasn’t there. He didn’t like it. He grabbed his phone again.

_Shouldn’t I be down there with you?_

It was only a moment before Sherlock answered.

_Yes, perhaps that would be best. –SH_

Relief flooded through John, and it was only at that moment he realized the extent to which he really, really did not like having Sherlock out of his sight. Perhaps it was a clinginess brought on by the head injury, or the knowledge that they were both so vulnerable, or the deepening of their relationship, or even left over trauma from those hideous 2 years that Sherlock had been “dead,” but for whatever reason or combination of reasons… No. He really didn’t like Sherlock to be out of his sight.

John tugged his coat back on, snatched up his laptop, and fairly fled Baker Street. 

 

***

 

John awoke on the small, hard, black office couch in Lestrade’s office. His neck was stiff. The light was out except for a small desk lamp. Outside, night had fallen. John sat up with a jerk in the semi-darkness. What was he doing asleep in Lestrade’s office? He looked down. He wasn’t wearing the same clothes he was wearing before. He scrubbed his face and looked around uneasily. Through the window, he could see Sherlock sitting at the conference table in the next room, hands steepled under his chin, papers and photos spread out before him.

Alright, that looked normal enough. They… oh, right. John thought. They’d been here earlier today… John raked his fingers nervously through his hair. But they had left, right? They’d left, they’d been in an alleyway, gone to dinner at the French restaurant, been picked up by Mycroft…

Mycroft. Mycroft did not approve. Now here they were back at NSY and John had a memory gap. And was wearing different clothes.

John leaned back on the couch and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling. If he’d upset Mycroft this much with his plans to seduce Sherlock, he supposed he was lucky to be alive. He looked down at his watch. It was nearly 3am.

Coffee. He needed coffee.

He rose and left the office, and went into the conference room. “Sorry, must have dozed off,” he commented from the doorway, and hovered there, not sure what to do next. Sherlock darted him a long, assessing look without turning his head. Lestrade was slouched in a chair with his feet on another chair. He looked exhausted. 

“Wish I could do,” he said wearily.

“I’m going down for some coffee,” John decided. “Anyone?”

“Me.” Lestrade raised one hand and let it fall limply.

Sherlock’s eyes returned to the paperwork in a non-reaction that John recognized as a negative and a dismissal. Right then. He went to the elevator and rode it down. He was just outside the cafeteria when his phone trilled in his pocket. He pulled it out.

_You have anterograde amnesia, it’s been a week now, you forget every time you sleep, don’t worry about it and don’t let Lestrade know. We are lovers now so don’t ask what happened to my neck. You did it. On second thought I’ll take a tea with two sugars. –SH_

John nearly fell over. He stared at the date on his phone for nearly a full minute. Another message came through.

_John? –SH_

His mind blown, John texted back: _What?_

_Remember that secrecy is vital. Act as normal as you can. Lestrade also wants a pastry. –SH_

Jesus Christ, John thought, putting the phone in his pocket and just standing in the passageway outside the cafeteria for a moment, his back against the wall. Wasn’t that Sherlock all over. “You have irreversible brain damage, now get me some tea.”

Well, sure. John’s brain was never the important one, was it? John realized he was standing with one hand over his mouth. A horrible thought came over him. He pulled his phone out again.

_Have I been working at the clinic like this??_

_No, you resigned and your only job now is to help me. Which you can do by bringing me a tea with two sugars, and a black coffee with a pastry for Lestrade. He wants a raspberry one if that is available. –SH_

Suddenly the blood rose up in his face and ears, and John was hot all over with anger.

_You can bloody well sod off!!_

John sank down until he was sitting in the quiet, carpeted passageway, his knees drawn up to his chest. My God. My life is over, he thought wildly. His phone pinged again.

_John, please, no one must know. –SH_

_You dick!_ John thought. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and then opened them again. Alright. Soldier on. He got to his feet and thanked God that it was late at night and no one saw him break down in the passageway outside the elevator by the cafeteria of New Scotland Yard.

He went for the refreshments, and by the time the elevator doors opened back up by Lestrade’s office, John had schooled his features into a patient, tired mask. He held a tray with three drinks in one hand and a small bag in the other.

When he entered the conference room, his laptop was opened invitingly before an empty chair, and Greg and Sherlock were much as they were before.

“They had the boy’s hat, Sherlock, it’s the only lead we have,” Greg was saying as he accepted the coffee and pastry.

“Mm. Indeed. But you’ll find they have nothing to do with the kidnapping,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes darting occasionally to John. John ignored him and sat down at his laptop. It was opened to his blog. He blinked and began reading. 

Memento… Oubliette…. My God. It was rather clever, John thought with a touch of appreciation for his own thought processes. His spirits revived a bit. He sat back in his chair with a sigh and Sherlock spoke as if he had been waiting.

“John, perhaps you can read through the notes again. It might—“ Sherlock waved his hand impatiently near his own curls, “—rattle something loose.”

Notes. Right. Um…. John shrank the blog and saw the word document open beneath it. Missing schoolboy, very wealthy family, no ransom demands as yet. Homeless man arrested with the boy’s hat. John read the notes in a flat, matter-of-fact manner and hoped his voice didn’t betray that it was the first time seeing the information for him.

When he was done, he risked a glance at Sherlock, who looked pleased with him. John felt a touch of sad gratitude. _Good dog,_ he thought.

Greg’s phone vibrated and he took it up, heaving himself out of his chair. “Yes. What?! Oh, that’s … not a good development. Where was it? Alright, yes… yes, send both of them out and… hold on,” he turned to Sherlock. “They’ve just found one of the boy’s teachers out on the moor, dead. Head bashed in… do you two think you could go up there? I can’t break away, and they have a good team up there, but I’d feel better if you—“

“Certainly,” Sherlock said, and was on his feet immediately. “Come John. To the north of England we go. We’ll just pop home and pack a bag, and off we’ll be.”

John managed to keep silent until they were leaving NSY and Sherlock was summoning a cab. “Do you even want me along?” he asked.

Sherlock stared at him as the cab glided to a halt. “John, you are essential.”

They got in the cab and Sherlock directed the driver to 221B Baker Street.

“But if I’m—“

Sherlock raised a gloved hand, and John cut himself off. Sherlock glanced at him, eyes icy blue in the passing streetlights. “Wait until we are home,” he directed. John subsided unhappily. He leads, I follow, he reminded himself. He sank down to watch London pass by the windows. The streets were fairly quiet at this early hour.

Suddenly Sherlock spoke again. He held out his hand. “Your phone.”

John hesitated irritably for a beat, and then handed it over in defeat. Whatever.

He watched as Sherlock deleted all the texts he’d sent when John was by the cafeteria. John gave him a questioning look, but the detective merely shook his head. “Wait.”

Finally they emerged and stood in the cool, early morning fog on their step. Sherlock lifted one gloved hand to John’s neck and lowered his face to John’s ear. “I am also compromised. We both hit our heads, we both forget when we sleep. But together, we can manage. When you sleep, I will be your memory. When I sleep, you will be mine.”

He lifted his head to stare down at the smaller man. John’s eyes wandered over the dramatic, almost comically defined face above him. _I’m in love with him,_ he realized with a warm stomach. _I’ll do whatever he asks. Even if I think it’s mad._

_And this is mad._

“Right. Alright, then,” John said, and turned to unlock the door of 221B.


	10. Alright. No Problem. We Got This.

Sherlock tossed his coat over the back of John’s chair and paced the living room while John packed for them both. In Sherlock’s room, he noted the red curtains. Been redecorating, then. Hm. There was quite an assortment of pajamas and shorts on the floor. He scooped them up quickly and dropped them in the hamper. Then he packed a change of clothes for Sherlock. 

“Oh, watch me mess up your sock index,” he whispered to himself, and swapped two bundles of socks. Bit of passive aggression there, he admitted to himself without much regret.

After that, John went up stairs. He flicked on the light and froze, staring around. What on earth was this… soccer jersey (not his), childhood trophy, a tin of dates… Belinda! John stepped forward and picked her up appreciatively. My God, he hadn’t given her a thought in years. He smiled to himself and turned her over, thinking, _I used to hide a bit of—“_

He stopped, reading the writing on the bottom. It drew his eyes to the book. He reached inside the hollow silver form and pulled out the note, and then sat down with a sigh.

Coping mechanisms, that’s what this was. Paranoid and secretive, but… okay. John reached for a pen, wrote the current date under the previous one, and stuffed it back up the cat. Then he continued packing.

At the last moment, he thought to take the Sig, and opened his drawer to retrieve his gun. Next to the gun was a small, gold, gift-wrapped package. John read the inscription and, after a moment’s contemplation, tucked the gift and the gun into his duffel bag. Then he trotted swiftly down the stairs to where Sherlock was waiting.

“Anything else I need to know?” John asked, not entirely expecting a reply. Sherlock was still pacing about the living room, eyes distant.

“Look in the lighthouse book,” he said off-handedly, and John read the further notes to himself.

John looked. “Ah, Mrs. Hudson’s sister,” he said.

“Yes, very sad. Are you ready?” Sherlock said impatiently.

John gave him a cranky look. “Do you mean, are WE ready?” He asked pointedly. Sherlock’s clothes were in his duffel too, after all. “Yes, WE are ready. WE can go to the station now.”

Sherlock gazed at him for an appraising moment. “Perhaps you should eat something.”

“I’ll eat when we get there, it’s only a couple hours,” John said.

“Very well,” Sherlock whipped the coat back on and exited the flat.

John lingered in the doorway a moment, looking back. “Should we bring that paper…?”

Sherlock’s voice floated up the stairs. “No, move nothing. Our system works, and I’m not going to sleep until we return. Let’s go, John!” He turned and gave a little smile up to John, who still stood on the landing. “The game is still on,” he said. His voice was soft but his eyes were bright. “We still have this.”

John’s mouth gave an answering twitch despite himself. His mood lifting slightly, he came down the stairs after the taller man.

“You could at least carry the laptop,” was all John said, however.

 

***

 

John awoke in a strange bed. He opened his eyes to early morning sunlight streaming in. He rolled over sleepily and looked around him with some concern. Looked like a bed & breakfast. Floral bedspread. Lacy curtains. A little fireplace (though no fire.) A quick look down confirmed that he was in clean pajamas and comfortably snuggled in.

The last thing he remembered was Mycroft dropping them off. He looked around again. Had Mycroft kidnapped him?? He mused for a moment, too sleepy to be truly alarmed yet.

No, kidnappings, in John’s experience, did not involve comfy beds and clean pajamas. He looked over at the other side of the bed. Not slept in. His eyes still roamed the room, looking for clues. There was Sherlock’s Belstaff slung over the back of a chair. John calmed somewhat when he saw that. His own clothing folded neatly in another chair… his own hand had done that, he was sure. There was his duffel bag on the floor near the chair.

John found his cell and his laptop conveniently placed on the bedside table by the lamp. He scooched up and sat in the bed, putting the pillows behind him to lean against the headboard. What the hell was this, then?

After a moment, he picked up his phone to text Sherlock and saw that there was already a text from Sherlock waiting for him.

_Read your blog, read the open document, then delete said document and come down to breakfast. –SH_

_Oh, of all the cloak and dagger nonsense,_ John thought. _I know he put something in my tea again._ Still, he opened the laptop and began reading.

 

Sherlock sat at a small table by the window of a cosy, northern cottage bed & breakfast drinking a cup of tea, ignoring a scone, and waiting for John. The morning sun was bright and cheerful against the lacy curtains. Sherlock had 3 days worth of short term memories to cherish, a kidnapping and a murder on the moors to solve, and John at his side at all times. 

Despite the recent glitch, life was good. His cell indicated an incoming message from John and he checked it.

_Down in 15 minutes._

A wave of appreciation swept through Sherlock. John was much calmer about this than most people would be. In the last three days that they had spent roaming the moors staring at cow prints, and interviewing schoolteachers and inn-keepers, John had dozed off twice. He’d fought to keep awake, but he simply didn’t have the detective’s capacity in that area.

Even Sherlock was beginning to feel the effects of his relentless activity, and he knew that they must return home today, at least for 10 hours. Sherlock had no intention of falling asleep in a strange place.

But John could, and did. He awoke confused and concerned, and was never happy to learn the diagnosis. The greater the span of forgotten life experiences, the more disturbing it was going to be for both of them, Sherlock mused. Still, after some 10 minutes of shock and dismay, John was ready to shower, dress, and face the day. 

Sherlock picked up his cell and held it at arm’s length directly in front of him, till it was about John’s eye-level, and took a quick selfie at the table, making sure to get the stone fireplace behind him in the photo. He was becoming rather adept at this selfie business. For John. The loss of personal memories bothered John.

Whether it bothered Sherlock too was not something he cared to discuss with himself.

He ignored the scone briskly for another 12 minutes, and then turned to see John, showered, shaved, neatly dressed and combed, coming forward with that special blend of modesty and military bearing that was John’s alone. He sat across from Sherlock, poured himself a coffee from the small, silver pot Sherlock had ordered, and accepted the unwanted scone.

“Alright then,” he said, stirring the coffee and looking around in a business-like manner. “Cow prints. You don’t like cows, do you?” He asked, smiling.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. No. He didn’t like cows. Some cows will chase you, he had learned as a boy. Happily there had been no cows in the field where the schoolteacher’s dead body was found. Cow prints, but no cows. Hm.

When they had finished breakfast, they took another tour of the campus from which the boy had disappeared. The lawns were bright, velvety green under the late April sun. On their stroll back to the shopping district of the town, they paused near an Inn which seemed to draw Sherlock’s attention. 

He stepped back to stare at the rather high set windows, even drawing out his phone to snap several pictures of the windows, the door, the address. John wandered off a few paces and then took some photos of his own on the quaint little avenue, including several of Sherlock, dramatic in his long black coat against the cobblestone streets. The sun brought out the hidden auburn highlights in his dark hair.

“Very well. We need to return to Baker Street,” Sherlock announced, turning away from the Inn. John was startled.

“But… have you solved it? You haven’t, have you?”

“No,” Sherlock admitted, “But even I need sleep and I have no intention of waking up here in a panic, not sure where I am or what is happening. I want to return to the flat, type up all the details, take a nap, awaken in my own bed and follow our clues, or let you explain—“

“I could do that here,” John protested.

But Sherlock was unmoved. “No. No, I … don’t want to wake up in that room with the flowery bedspread.”

John gave him a quizzical look. “You’ll take the train all the way back to London for a nap?”

Sherlock heaved a sigh and gave the sky a quick glare. “Yes, John, I want to go back to London for a nap.” He bit out. Then he turned and strode back toward the bed and breakfast. Behind him, John smirked and took another picture. Himself, collar up, coattails caught in the permanent invisible wind machine he has on call. But it never musses his hair. John’s grin grew wider as he tucked the phone away and picked up his pace to keep up with his friend. Lover. Whatever. God, it was a beautiful day!


	11. We Don't Got This.

Sherlock awoke in his room. It was late afternoon. He was wearing pajamas. He rolled over, puzzled. Mycroft had dropped him off. He and John had kissed, finally! Had kissed! And… Sherlock had a dream of being someplace else, someplace bucolic and green. But he wasn’t anywhere bucolic and green, he was home in his bed in the late afternoon and felt oddly disoriented.

He reached for his phone, saw the date, and froze. It was nearly two weeks off. This could not be right. Sherlock unfroze, and sat up quickly. He checked his texts, but only one seemed unfamiliar: from Lestrade asking him to come to Islington. It was several days old.

“John!” He called out. No answer.

Sherlock lifted his head and trained his ears alertly. The flat was deathly silent.

“John!” He called out again, and then he saw the curtains. Red curtains, and a copy of Hamlet. Curtains. Hamlet. Death.

No John. No texts. Days and days gone by. Sherlock’s breathing sped up, and he rolled his sleeves up quickly to check his arms. No needlemarks.

My God, what had happened… he was nearly afraid to leave the bedroom.

Finally, he bolstered his courage and went out into the kitchen. His eyes scanned as frantically as radar. Abandoned experiment on the kitchen table… dead flesh, corrosive material, clearly 4-5 days along. The matter in the bowl was liquefied. Abandoned, his mind repeated.

Sherlock stepped into the living room. His eyes went to the mantel. By the skull, a postcard, one of John’s novels and a movie. He went to the postcard and snatched it up. The back read, “In case I don’t see you, good afternoon, good evening, and good night.” There was a curious flippant hostility in those words. In John’s handwriting.

_He’s finally left me,_ Sherlock thought.

But why the red curtains? Why Hamlet? Death, that’s death, his mind echoed. 

The sitting room had just the barest layer of dust. John’s coat was hanging by the door. His coat was here but he was not.

Sherlock ran up the stairs to John’s room. Inside the door, his flesh fairly crawled. This room was more dusty than the sitting room. Weeks worth. Bed not … not slept in, but sat on. Strange things about the room, things he did not think were John’s. A gaudy, bright red soccer jersey hanging up, John would never. A trophy. A silver cat, of all things. Sherlock sank to sit on the bed and suddenly he was certain that John had left him, and then had been killed. Or died. Some accident, some enemy, and he, he himself… drugged? Unconscious for days?

No texts, nothing from Mycroft, or Lestrade, or John.

A heaving gasp took him and Sherlock doubled over, expelling only air. It was a hard, dry, sobbing noise, part panic and part grief, and he covered his face with his hands and tried to smother it, but more came.

_Gone, he’s gone. And I am going mad._

Sherlock’s face crumpled in his hands and he emitted several more wracking, dry convulsions before he heard familiar footsteps on the stairs, and a moment later John was at his side, sitting on the bed, his warm arms wrapped around Sherlock.

“Oh, no, no, no… there now… there now, no, no…” John was practically babbling nonsense as his hands scrubbed Sherlock’s bare arms, and slipped up under the t-shirt he was wearing to rub his back. His other arm wrapped around Sherlock and pulled him close. The taller man turned into John’s embrace, his face buried abashedly in the comforting scent of John’s neck.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have left, I shouldn’t have left you… I just popped downstairs to check on Mrs. Hudson, you know, and… I was only gone five minutes, I didn’t think you’d wake, you were so tired, you’d been going for 3 days…” 

The half-whispered tide of self-recrimination and explanation got through to Sherlock, and he eventually straightened, and tried to regain some of his dignity.

But his eyes were red and burning, and still welling. John’s were soft and blue, and very sorry.

“Oh, love,” John sighed, and planted several quick kisses on Sherlock’s lips, and cheeks, and temple. “Oh, I’m sorry, love,” he breathed. Then he took Sherlock in his arms rather masterfully, bore him back on the bed, and then turned with an agile twist that landed Sherlock on top of him. John then wrapped both arms tightly around his beloved and squeezed him until Sherlock went limp and brought his own long, bony hands up to wrap under John’s shoulders.

“I thought you had left me. Or been taken from me.” Sherlock admitted in a whisper.

“No, no, never, never…” John whispered back, into the dark curls. “Never leave you.”

“What has happened to me?” Sherlock asked shakily, and lay with his face hidden while John explained. He didn’t take it nearly as well as John usually did. 

 

But eventually, they made their way back down to the sitting room. John brought Sherlock his blue robe, feeling that he needed his protective cloak after that display of emotion. Then he went to the kitchen and made a strong pot of tea for the both of them.

He glanced back at the disgusting mess on the table. “Can I bin this?” He called in to the detective.

Sherlock was reading the notes on John’s laptop, and downloading photos from both phones. His posture was still rather defensive and hunched up.

He didn’t answer, so John took that as a Yes. He put the abandoned experiment, bowl and all, into a bag and tied it up, intending to take it down to the bins while the tea steeped. He went to the door and glanced back at Sherlock.

“I’ll just take this down,” he said, and Sherlock gave him a cold look.

“Yes, John, I promise not to burst into tears each time you leave the room,” he rapped out quickly.

John just gave him a warm, slightly sad smile, and unaccountably Sherlock’s eyes filled again. My God, what a wreck he was. Sentiment, he nearly snarled to himself.

John took the garbage out and returned without comment. Soon after, he brought in the tea and sat across from Sherlock. His attention was caught by a large book at his elbow about lighthouses. Oh, he liked lighthouses. He wondered if Mrs. Hudson had left it here for him.

John picked it up and opened it.

Oh, he thought, discovering the notebook paper, the photo, and the card. He sorted through it, and then cast a furtive glance at Sherlock, who was deep in reviewing the notes for the case of the missing schoolboy.

John retrieved his phone from Sherlock’s side and looked through his most recent photos. Oh, yes. Several worth printing. The afternoon turned to evening, and they went about their pursuits in companionable silence. John added to the notes, placed the new photos in the book, and finally said, “Thai?”

“Hm,” Sherlock said, which meant that he was not hungry, but anything on John’s plate was likely to be more appealing than anything on his own. John ordered the Thai and went downstairs to retrieve it when it arrived.

When he re-entered the flat, Sherlock was staring at one of the photos he had taken in the cow pasture.

“I remember this,” he said.

John put the food down and started drawing out the containers. “You think so?” He asked.

“No, I don’t THINK so, I remember it.” Sherlock insisted waspishly.

John came to stand by him. He picked up the selfie Sherlock had taken at the table.

“This is the one I feel that way about.” He said. “That fireplace, and you there, and the sunlight. I don’t know.”

He put the photo down and dished out the meal. “Are we going back up North? Or will you be able to solve it from here, do you think?”

Sherlock accepted a bowl of rice and picked at it moodily. “We’ll return tomorrow evening. I have a theory, but we must wait until the conspirators feel certain I am gone. It might be well to be seen out and about tomorrow, here in London, preferably in some manner that will attract a photographer or two.”

“Ah.” John settled in with his own meal. “Alright then.”

 

It was much later, and John had been enjoying a splash of scotch and had finally, blessedly freed his laptop from Sherlock to play a few rounds of Candy Crush, when the first feeling of drowsiness hit him. He closed the laptop and glanced over at Sherlock, who had migrated to the couch and lay in a princely position, deep in Mind Palace mode. Well, he hadn’t been able to add to it in the last 2 weeks, but there was still a lifetime of material stored there, John supposed.

“Guess, I’ll turn in,” John offered, standing up and stretching, not sure Sherlock would even hear him. He cleaned up the leftovers of the Thai, and Sherlock’s cold cup of untouched tea, and dumped it all in the sink. Then he glanced around to see that everything was in place for “tomorrow’s John,” as he thought of it now. Book, movie, postcard by skull. Lighthouses under the paper. John went up stairs to get clean pajamas and looked around the room. 50 First Dates. Belinda, the Captain, and Sebastion. Virginia and the notebook. He opened the drawer. The sig and the golden mystery present from Mycroft.

All sorted, then.

He came back down, passed the pale, brooding mummy on the couch, and went to clean up. In the loo, after his shower, John leaned forward for a long look in the damp, heat-fogged mirror. Tonight, you die, he thought. The John of today, with today’s memories, will die in his sleep. Tomorrow, a new John, born the day he and Sherlock first kissed, would wake up, find the notes and clues from the former John, and attempt to carry on that life in such a manner that outsiders would never know that a dozen Johns and Sherlocks had been born and died in the span of a day. Clones carrying on a.. a legacy? Or a charade?

_Well, that was dark,_ John scolded himself. He towel-dried his hair and combed it down. He was alive. Sherlock was alive. They were together. _You be grateful for what you have._

John went into the bedroom with a cup of water to find Sherlock waiting for him in the bed. He stopped in surprise. “You’re going to sleep?”

Sherlock rolled his head on the pillow toward John. “Yes. I’ve committed that one familiar photo to my Mind Palace, just the one, and left a clue for myself to look for it. I want to see if I can retain just that one memory. If I can just retain one…” his voice trailed off and his eyes glanced over John in his blue and white pajamas.

John came forward and set the water on the table by his side of the bed. “I don’t think that’s how it works, though,” he said reluctantly.

Sherlock didn’t answer, suggesting that he, too, knew it was probably futile. He watched as John slipped in beside him. They both turned on their sides, their faces half-buried in their pillows, and regarded one another with rather bittersweet looks on their faces.

“Hey,” John whispered, having a sudden idea. He rolled away for a moment, picked up his phone, and took a quick photo of Sherlock as he was, his face half-hidden in the pillow, his hair curling over one silver eye, the light gracing one half of that long jaw, those perfectly cut lips smiling slightly at him.

Then with a few quick taps, he made that photo the wallpaper of his phone. Turning the phone, he showed it to Sherlock. 

Sherlock twisted and took up his own phone, and John settled his face into the pillow the same way, and gave a little smirk. Sherlock took his photo and set his own screen to display it.

“There.” He said. “A matched set. And a clue when we awake that neither of us has simply and unexpectedly molested the other out of some dark and shocking impulse.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” John murmured. “I might have some dark and shocking impulses you’re about to discover.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly, and John drew closer. Without warning, he threw a leg over Sherlock’s hips and dragged him tightly against himself. “Oh dear,” he breathed. “Here comes Mr. Hyde…”

Sherlock’s lashes fluttered in what looked for a moment like maidenly uncertainty. John grinned and moved to lay on top of him, digging his lips into the other man’s throat. Then he sank his teeth in, ever so gently. Sherlock gasped and ground his hips up against John’s. Soon they were wrapped tightly against one another, kissing ardently, moving in slow, grinding rhythms, rocking in synchronicity and bliss.


	12. Perfectly Normal, See?

When John woke, it was late morning. He was in Sherlock’s bed, and he felt very relaxed and content. Sherlock was a warm and heavy weight upon him, and John’s hands were well under the other man’s bed clothes. One hand lay high up on that long, white back, pressing him tightly between the shoulder blades. The other was thrust down Sherlock’s trousers and gripping one round cheek tightly, even in his sleep. John lay, blinking sleepily, and rather confused. He shifted slightly under the thrilling weight of his lover. There was something… not unfamiliar about this. As if his body remembered whatever had happened last night, but his mind was… rather in the fog, to be honest. Must have drunk scotch, John thought fuzzily. He cuddled Sherlock closer, flexing his fingers contentedly on that round bum. _Just made for spanking,_ he thought with a wicked little smirk.

Sherlock suddenly woke and shot up on his arms to stare down at John as if he’d heard that thought and objected.

John smiled. “Hey,” he said, not letting go of that cheek. In fact, he gave it a good, hard squeeze. “Mmm.”

Sherlock looked dazed. He turned his head left and right, and then his gaze settled on the curtains. He escaped John’s embrace and crawled to his own side of the bed, snatching up his phone.

 _Well,_ John thought, _he’s a romantic one._ He sat up and noticed the cup of water by his bed. _Oh, excellent,_ he thought, and drank it down. Then, since he was being utterly neglected by his silent and rather harried looking lover—who seemed obsessed with his cell—John reached for his own phone. When he saw the date, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and just sat for a moment, staring at it. The screen had a photo of Sherlock smiling with his face half in the pillow, and the date was some two weeks after what it should be. John turned to give Sherlock a suspicious and accusing look, but Sherlock was already struggling into his blue robe with panicky movements.

“Hey,” John said, holding up his phone. 

Sherlock’s step faltered for a moment. He took the phone wordlessly, stared at it, and then at John, and briefly offered his own. They compared for a moment, and then fled to the sitting room.

“Death… Yorick,” Sherlock was muttering.

John followed, thinking “Death to Mycroft, more like,” but he didn’t say anything until Sherlock turned to him with a novel in his hands. “Is this yours?” He asked.

 

Two hours later, they went out to breakfast. Just two men, friends, partners, and lovers, going out on a beautiful spring day in search of crepes and coffee. They kept their faces calm, found a café, and settled into a corner.

“So… you can remember a photograph,” John said, after checking around that no one could hear them.

“Yes. My violin music was opened to Greensleeves, a song with very specific associations from my childhood, and in my Mind Palace was a green door with that photograph taped to the front.” Sherlock drummed his fingers together under his chin.

John drank his coffee. “But could you open the door?”

“No,” Sherlock admitted. “But it’s progress, John. It’s progress!”

John picked at his crepe. “I couldn’t remember anything.”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock said dismissively.

John shot him a look. _Oh, right, my tiny little brain, barely used, how peaceful._ He couldn’t deny a stab of envy. Trust Sherlock to overcome brain damage by sheer force of will.

“You looked through everything about the case, though,” John said, doing his best to shake off the unworthy thought. If one of them were to recover, via some miracle, let it be Sherlock. Indeed, if one of them could live forever, let it be Sherlock. _I don’t want to bury him again. I can’t, now. If he goes, I go._ John drew in his breath, rather shocked at the path his thoughts took. 

Sherlock, however, was rattling off his observations about the case now. In fact, the fresh look at the evidence, untainted by previous assumptions, coupled with the advantage of snapshots and interviews that he himself had obtained to his own specifications, seemed to galvanize him.

“Tonight, we’ll return,” Sherlock finished. “That Inn. I’m increasingly certain we’ll find a piece of the puzzle at the inn where the groundskeeper’s son works.”

Sherlock’s phone trilled, and he turned his attention to it. “Mrs. Hudson,” he murmured. “it seems we have a client awaiting us.”

John finished his crepe and took a bite of Sherlock’s. “Might have time for a quick one, what time do you want to head North?”

“By 5pm, I think,” Sherlock mused absently. “Yes. Should have time to find a runaway husband or two before then.”

John sat back and said suddenly, “Mycroft has been strangely silent all this time, hasn’t he?”

Sherlock held up a warning hand. “Don’t. If you say his name, he may appear in a puff of smoke, and I’m in no mood to have my morning spoiled.”

John giggled, and they got up to pay for breakfast.

 

The fellow who settled onto the couch to present his case was a weary but honest looking type named Jim Dodd. He had a trace of military bearing about him, rather like John, Sherlock thought, but with more strain and a touch of absent-mindedness. He had a hat in his hands he kept twisting in a rather distracting manner. 

“It just didn’t seem like Geoffrey to vanish and not keep in touch. Not an email? Not a text? And then his father said he’d gone off to Australia, well, they do have internet in Australia, don’t they? So I went over to his father’s to talk to him in person—“

Sherlock was very close to making a cutting “moving along” remark when he glanced at John. John’s forehead was furrowed in sympathy. Ah yes, that military background. Here were two fellows who’d served Queen and Country. Sherlock wanted a good eyeroll but John was giving him a stern side-eye that suggested he could feel it coming, so he settled for a hard blink and recomposed his face to appear politely interested.

“And through the window I see Geoffrey’s car pass by! It slowed down like it was going to pull into the drive, and then sped up again and took off. I went out and tried to follow it but it was gone, and I…. I can’t believe he’d avoid me. We didn’t have a falling out. And I’m afraid… I’m afraid they’ve done something to him.”

“His own family?” John asked.

“Come now, John, you know as well as I do if anyone is going to murder you, it’s likely to be someone who spends a great deal of time with you.” Sherlock rapped out.

John shot him an exasperated look. “Yes, I do know that,” he commented. “I spend a great deal of time with you and it crosses my mind 3 times a day.”

Sherlock looked sour, and Jim Dodd looked diverted for a moment. But his features fell back into worry again. “I just think…. Either something’s happened to him, and they’re covering it up, or… or he’s in some sort of trouble and they don’t want anyone to know. But I’d help if they’d let me. He and I were close in Afghanistan,” he turned to John, “You know. Buddies. We went through a lot together.”

John nodded and his eyes were briefly distant. Sherlock felt a pang of jealousy in his stomach for whoever John was thinking of just then.

“Yes. Alright then, give us a photo and an address and we’ll look into it,” Sherlock announced. Dodd pulled out his phone. “I can forward some old photos…?”

John whipped out his laptop and hesitated. “Sure you wouldn’t like some tea?”

“Oh, no, I’m quite alright, thank you,” Dodd said, tapping at his phone. He sent the photos to John’s email, and then hovered over his shoulder as John enlarged and printed them.

“Yes, that’s him there with the red hair. Can’t really miss that hair, when the sun hits it, it’s just the color of yams.” Dodd said with a little smile.

“What sort of car was it?” Sherlock asked, and John typed in all the descriptions and pertinent facts Dodd offered.

Finally the fellow left and Sherlock consulted his phone quickly. “Alright, let’s go find the red-headed heroin junkie—three hours is ample—and then we’ll be on our way back up north to stake out the groundskeeper’s son at the Inn.”

John stared at him. “Heroin junkie?!”

Sherlock pulled on the Belstaff coolly. “I know the neighborhood, I know the behavior. He’s undoubtedly doing his best to keep his friend out of it, but yes. I suspect I even know whom he owes money to… you might want to bring your gun.”

John went upstairs and opened the drawer to grab the Sig and stopped, startled. Inside was a gold gift box about the size of a small bottle of cologne. To John from Mycroft? Open in case of emergency? John hesitated for a moment, and then stuffed the Sig in his waistband and, on impulse, put the gold box in the inside breast pocket of his coat. It made a bit of a bulge, and he had a feeling that Sherlock knew nothing of the gift and would be livid if he saw it. But John zipped up his coat regardless.


	13. Wait. Oh, Hell No.

They exited the Tube at Hackney Central and stepped out onto the pedestrian traffic. Sherlock led the way and soon enough found an alley with an obliging member of the Homeless Network to consult with. 

John stood nearer the street and kept a sharp eye on passers-by. No question but that he was becoming more protective of Sherlock than ever. John had killed a man for Sherlock after only knowing him for a day. Now that they were lovers, he’d truly put all his eggs in one basket, John admitted to himself. Glancing over at the tall, thin figure in his long black coat, he mused, _Anyone touches that basket, I’ll rip their fucking arms off._

Soon enough they were striding down yet another alley to confront a shady looking character who seemed to recognize Sherlock on sight. He took off at a dead run and without hesitation, John and Sherlock launched off after him, their footsteps ringing on the pavement.

John was only a step behind Sherlock at first, for there was something about a chav in a bobble hat that brought out the cat-chasing-mouse instinct. They pounded down the alley, their faces alight with the excitement of the chase. Then their prey went up a fire escape, Sherlock nearly catapulted himself after him, and John’s excitement immediately turned to stress. Sherlock on rooftops was a bit not good.

To make it worse, the fire escape was that sort John hated; it bobbed up out of his reach and it almost seemed as if Sherlock had done it on purpose, so John couldn’t follow.

“Oi!!” He called up, but Sherlock glanced back and gestured for him to follow from the ground. He got to the top, pulled out his phone and held it up, and then turned to continue after his fleeing quarry. 

For a split second, John had the most crippling of flashbacks. But he shook it off and, cursing, ran down the alley, his phone in his hand, his eyes on the rooftops, for as long as he could see Sherlock. At one point the both of them leapt from one building to another and John nearly had heart failure at the sight of that black coat billowing out as it sailed over the empty stone street four floors below. But Sherlock landed like a cat and took off again, and John struggled to follow.

Eventually, however, he lost them.

“Damn, damn, damn you…” John panted, and he meant Sherlock, not the chav.

Gasping for breath, John leaned against the wall and tapped into the GPS feature of his phone. He could see the building where Sherlock was now and, after a few more gasps for air, he trotted off in that direction.

When he finally reached it, a brick apartment building four stories high, John noted that the signal had ceased moving.

“Sherlock!” He yelled upward from the alley. No reply. Cursing and sweating, John called Sherlock’s number. No reply. John circled the building until he located another fire escape (of the same wretched sort) and looked around till he found a filthy and abandoned broom near a bin ripe with rotten smells. He used the broom to push the ballast end of the fire escape up and the steps came down enough for him to jump up and grab them.

John clattered up the steps as fast as he could and gained the rooftop, feeling light-headed with effort and fear. He stood in the wind atop the rooftop and looked in all directions. No Sherlock, no chav in a bobble hat.

Increasingly frantic, John double-checked the GPS tracker. Yes, this was where he should be. There was a large metal structure on the rooftop near a housed entrance to a stairwell. It looked like a generator, and with a sinking heart, John went forward to look behind it, dreading finding a long black figure sprawled lifeless in its shadow. But when he turned the corner, his hand already on the butt of the Sig, all John found was Sherlock’s phone, abandoned on the rooftop, and a white cloth nearby. 

He sank down to his knees and picked up the phone, still breathing heavily. Then he reached for the cloth, not really expecting anything so handy as a monogram or a clue he could follow, but when he brought it up to look at it, he caught a whiff of something that make his stomach cramp with anxiety. It smelled of bleach and alcohol; the poor man’s chloroform.

“Oh God, Sherlock,” John muttered, sinking to sit on the rooftop. But it was only a moment before he heaved himself to his feet and went to the door that must lead back down inside the building. Sherlock was thin, but he was heavy, and no drug-dealing wanker could carry him easily. John grabbed and door and yanked, but of course it was locked.

He clenched his fists, threw back his head, and let out a scream of rage. For a moment, John truly contemplated drawing his gun and trying to shoot the lock out. But he doubted that actually worked except in Hollywood, and what if Sherlock were collapsed right behind that door?

John pounded on it a few times to express his frustration, and then bethought himself to get back down the fire escape quickly. No way could someone carry an unconscious man right out onto the sidewalk or into an alley without someone noticing. He must still be inside the building.

Gaining the ground, John circled the building again and approached the front doors. Also locked. He peered in the small window and realized the place had an abandoned look to it. Oh, God, Sherlock helpless and unconscious in an abandoned building in Hackney with a den of drug dealers who hated him.

This was an emergency. John pulled the gold gift box out of his pocket and ripped it open with shaking fingers. What he found inside made him give a gasping sob.

It was a small, gold figurine of a dog, sitting primly, its head up, no more than three inches high. The eyes were ruby gems, as was the thin, glittering collar. 

It was Gloria... Gloria, the benevolent golden counterpart to the evil silver Belinda. It was a message to John from Mycroft that only John would understand. It meant: _I know, John. I know it all. Do not be afraid of exposing Sherlock by calling for my aid. There is nothing to expose. I know and I have done nothing, I have no intention of interfering, but I am here to help._

For the first time, John glimpsed what it must be like for Sherlock to live in the shadow of an intellect greater than his own, and to fear it. But there was nothing to fear.

John called Mycroft without further delay. Then he called Lestrade.

***

The building was surrounded by police cars within minutes, and Lestrade held John back as the uniformed officers forced open the doors and entered.

“You stay here, mate, you’ll end up a hostage yourself if they know the two of you at all,” Lestrade said, one arm across John’s chest to keep him from barreling in. 

“If they’ve hurt him, I’ll kill them,” John muttered thickly, eyes dark.

“I know.” Greg said grimly. “That’s the other reason you need to stay here.” He kept a firm grip on John, who allowed it if only to avoid becoming something they could leverage against Sherlock. But his eyes never left the building.

For several tense minutes, officers surged into the building, guns drawn. The flashing lights attracted a crowd, and several people had their cellphones out and were recording the excitement. 

_Well,_ John thought half-madly, _he wanted to make sure they knew he was in London._ He hoped desperately that this was a stunt Sherlock had pulled deliberately. He swallowed, his heart thumping. _If it was, you’ll get that spanking yet,_ he brooded. But there was little humor in the thought.

“John.”

He turned to see Mycroft beckoning him from the window of a sleek black car. Lestrade released him, and John turned and trotted to the car immediately. The door opened and John slid inside. Mycroft had a laptop placed neatly on a very expensive looking briefcase, and the briefcase sitting neatly on his lap. He turned it to face John.

“What—“ John leaned forward to see a red, blinking dot moving along a city street some three miles south west of their location.

“The Belstaff,” Mycroft murmured with deceptive calm. “I had a chip placed in the hem when I realized the situation.”

John sat back and stared at him. “When was this?”

“When Sherlock awoke in hospital and both of you seemed terribly muddled,” Mycroft said, and leaned forward to speak to the driver. The car smoothly pulled away and John looked back to see Lestrade stare and spread his hands in the universal WTF gesture.

John pulled out his phone and texted Greg quickly. 

_Mycroft believes Sherlock has already been moved._

Lestrade texted back promptly, _Right then. Keep me posted._

 

John sat back tensely, and he and Mycroft regarded the blinking red dot with deep absorption as the driver in the front maneuvered them with efficient but aggressive moves through London’s streets.

“Moving fast. Must be in a car.” John breathed.

“Keeping to the main roads,” Mycroft observed deliberately, and John got the distinct impression he was speaking aloud as a mere courtesy. “They are not concerned that Sherlock will either escape or be spotted.”

“Boot of the car,” John guessed, feeling sick. He might be dead already. They might just be taking the body to dump it.

“Possibly.” Mycroft looked composed but his face had lost what little color it had. Suddenly he blinked, tapped the icon to shrink the map, and pointed his finger. John leaned forward and hope began to rise in his gut. The route the blinking red dot was taking headed directly toward Baker Street.

John drew in his breath with a gasp. Was it possible that Sherlock had been chloroformed only so the chav could escape him? Suppose he had been. Suppose the attacker had managed to pop up behind the detective, put the rag over his face long enough to make him collapse, drag him unconscious into the stairwell, the rag and phone both left behind … the perpetrator might not have even noticed Sherlock dropping the phone, or cared.

Dragged him into the stairwell, John’s imagination supplied, locked the door behind him, ran down and out of the building while John was still gasping in the alleyway and tapping frantically at his GPS. If so… Sherlock would likely awake in a dark stairwell only moments later, his memory wiped clean once again, and have no idea where he was or why, or how.

No phone, no John… might he have simply stumbled out of the building, distraught and confused, and just… taken a cab home? John suppressed a wild giggle. Oh, Sherlock would be furious at him. Then he sobered.

“We have to get to Baker Street as soon as we can,” John said, looking up at Mycroft. “The last time he woke up alone he… he was very upset.”

Mycroft nodded, eyes never leaving the blinking red dot. Its path did not vary. It was still heading toward Baker Street. He leaned forward once more to give the driver directions, and John scrubbed his face with his hands. _Please, God, let it be so,_ he prayed.


	14. And There You Have It

By the time they reached Baker Street, the blinking red dot confirmed their suspicions. Mycroft closed the laptop and they both exited the car. John gave an anxious glance up toward the curtains, but no Sherlock appeared to gaze down.  
John unlocked the door and thundered up the stairs loudly, fully intending that his footsteps should alert Sherlock. I’m here. I’m coming.

Mycroft followed more sedately.

John burst into the living room to find Sherlock sitting primly in his chair, hands together under his chin, eyes wide and haunted. He looked up at John and some relief was evident, but he seemed unwilling to move or speak. He just swallowed and sat there, his eyes fixed on John.

“Oh, God,” John sighed, and came forward to put his hands on Sherlock’s knees, and lean forward till his forehead pressed against his friend’s curls. Sherlock’s lips parted in surprise, and his hands came to rest upon John’s, but he said nothing. 

They simply remained as they were for a moment. Mycroft entered as unobtrusively as possible and stood quietly by the door, watching somberly.

Finally Sherlock spoke. “I can’t seem to find my phone,” he said, and his voice lacked any attempt at coldness or bite. It was more of a soft rumble. Confusion had robbed him of the ability to even attempt to feign arrogance.

John straightened and pulled it from his pocket. “Here, you dropped it on a rooftop,” he said rather meaningfully, and Sherlock looked up at him with wide, uncertain eyes. Oh, those eyes, thought John. He turned away with another sigh and pulled off his jacket and hung it up.

“Mycroft, can you explain to Sherlock while I make us some tea?” He asked. He really just… wanted to make tea right now.

Mycroft settled into John’s chair with dignity as John retreated into the kitchen. This called for a whole pot, he thought, retrieving the rather feminine blue and white china teapot (a reminder of his marriage) and setting it on the worktop. He put the tea bags in, dumped a goodly amount of sugar in out of habit, and waited for the kettle.

In the sitting room, Mycroft and Sherlock were communicating in their usual way, producing short, mysterious phrases laden with innuendo in their deep yet soft voices, precise and deliberate, interspersed with long pauses and stares. John amused himself imagining them as teenagers fighting over the bathroom while the water heated.

Finally he was able to bring in a decent tray, and set it on the ottoman near Mycroft. He handed the cups around and then dragged over the office chair to sit very close to Sherlock. Both men looked at him with rather lifted eyebrows, but John was past caring. He’d just spent a half hour fearing that Sherlock was dead in the boot of a car. He’d sit and hold the fool’s hand if he wanted to.

“So, Mycroft explained,” John asked, and took a sip of hot, sweet tea. God that was good.

“Anterograde amnesia, yes,” Sherlock said rather emotionlessly, looking as if he wanted to spit something cutting about transport or sentiment, but was unable to muster the energy. It occurred to John that Sherlock might have spent the last half hour thinking the worst as well.

John set down his cup and asked Mycroft to pass the lighthouse book. There was no need to conceal anything from Mycroft now. John opened the book and retrieved the notebook paper they’d created for themselves. “Look what your first instruction is to yourself,” John said to Sherlock pointedly. “Keep John with you at all times. You didn’t do that, you pulled up the fire escape so I couldn’t follow you.”

Sherlock bit his lips for a moment, regarding the paper, and then said calmly, “Of course I do not remember doing any such thing, but I suspect that if I did it was because I felt you were safer not following me--”

“Yes, thanks, got it, but look how that turned out. Keep John with you at all times!” John said firmly.

Sherlock gave him a rather bleak look, “I won’t remember this lesson,” he said softly.

John leaned back and shut the book. Right. He was right. He would continue to operate as the Sherlock Holmes of 2 weeks ago. John put the book aside in frustration. No new memories.

“But wait,” he said. “Greensleeves. Look in your Mind Palace. Greensleeves. You did have a new memory, you said it this morning when we had breakfast over at that French bakery with the crepes.”

Sherlock’s eyes seem to veil themselves as he retreated inward, and he grew very still.

Mycroft finally spoke. “John, anterograde amnesia due to brain trauma rarely allows for such islands of memory,” he paused and took a sip of his tea. “The brain cannot—“ he interrupted himself to stare down at his tea cup. “John, what sort of tea is this?” He asked with the sort of politeness that is clearly straining to conceal condemnation.

“What… Earl Grey, why? Just.. Twinings…?” John answered, taken aback.

Mycroft took another careful sip. “With sugar,” he observed.

“Yes, don’t you take sugar? Sorry about that I was just… I’ve been in the habit lately…”

Sherlock emerged from his trance. “I remember a photo of a pasture.” He said hopefully, looking at John.

John turned back to him. “Yes! Yes, that’s it, see?” He said rather triumphantly to Mycroft.

Mycroft looked at Sherlock, looked at John, looked at the tea, and then set it down and rose to his feet. “What sort of sugar?” He asked unexpectedly.

John was baffled. “What sort… the kind that comes in a bag!” He said, exasperated. 

Mycroft turned and walked in his stately fashion to the kitchen, his head tipped rather combatively as he went in search of the sugar. John stared after him for a moment and then turned to Sherlock questioningly. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he stared after his brother.

Suddenly they both shot to their feet and followed Mycroft into the kitchen. He was just touching his finger to the sugar in the bowl and bringing it to his tongue experimentally. Then he made a bit of a fastidious face. John reached past him and opened the cupboard to point out the rather large bag of sugar within.

“Is that the sort you usually purchase?” Mycroft asked.

John thought about it. “Actually, no, that’s the type Mary always liked. I think it’s the last of it.” He pointed to a smaller, unopened bag further back. “That’s what I usually get.”

Mycroft withdrew the bag of sugar carefully from the cupboard, regarding it rather as if it were a snake. “And so Mary left the two of you with this, and then she flew away.”

John stared at the bag of sugar. Mycroft had a way of putting things that just made them sound so terribly ominous.

Mycroft drew his breath in through his nose in a manner that Sherlock seemed to recognize, by his brightening eyes. “I’ll just take this,” Mycroft purred, and walked calmly out of their kitchen with an umbrella and a half a bag of sugar.

“Sure,” John said after him, hands on his hips. “Come by and borrow sugar any time.”

“John,” Sherlock remonstrated, and John gave him a look.

“No, I’m not an idiot, Sherlock, I know he’s going to have it tested.”

By the door, Mycroft turned and stated, “I recommend that you pour out that tea, wash the pot thoroughly, bin the sugar in the bowl, wash it thoroughly as well, open the new bag of sugar and make yourselves a fresh pot of tea. I will report back to you as soon as I have any items of interest to discuss.”

Then he exited the flat.

 

***

 

John came into the bedroom two nights later, fresh from his shower, clad in his softest pajamas, and regarded the man who waited in the bed for him. 

“So,” he said, tossing the towel on top of the hamper and giving his slightly damp hair one last smooth. “Lorazepam.”

Sherlock turned his head slightly on the pillow and gazed back at John meditatively. “Yes. It looks as though the majority of it was in the lower portion of the bag, so we wouldn’t have begun ingesting it till she was well away.”

John sat on his side of the bed, and turned toward Sherlock. “But what did she mean by it?”

“I suspect she intended that you join her in Ecuador after some months. If so, you would not have been exposed to it.” Sherlock said softly.

“But you would have,” John said. “Would she do that to you? I mean—“ he caught himself “—alright, that’s probably a stupid question, given that she shot you in the chest, but... to destroy one of the greatest minds in England...?”

Sherlock gave an appreciative smirk. “She might not have. Had you joined her, she might have said, Oh by the way, John, do text Sherlock and tell him to throw out that sugar. I put something in it meant to punish him if he stole you from me but since he didn’t, no hard feelings.”

John could just see Mary saying that, in her cheeky way. He shook his head.

“But you did steal me, so this would have been our punishment.” He observed. “Had it gone on long enough, the effects might be permanent.”

John crawled under the covers, slipped his arm under Sherlock, and hauled the lanky man into his grasp. “But why did it manifest right after we hit our heads?”

Sherlock buried his face rather shyly in John’s neck. He still wasn’t accustomed to having such tactile freedoms. “I would say coincidence,” he rumbled softly, “but as Mycroft says, we were holed up in such privacy for those two days before, I deduce that some cooking must have taken place.”

John thought about it. “I make a smashing apple crumble,” he offered.

Sherlock lifted his head. “I love apple crumble,” he said hopefully.

John mused, “but we don’t have any apples. We had a whole bag, but – oh my God.”

“You must have—“

They stared at each other for a moment and then burst into laughter.

“Oh my God,” John repeated, squeezing Sherlock close. They clung to each other, torn between horror and amusement. 

_Yes,_ John thought, _if you ditch a sociopathic assassin for someone else, you can be certain she’ll find a way to drug your apple crumble._

They grew silent in each other’s arms for a long, warm moment. Then Sherlock said, “I think it rather backfired on her.”

John stroked the black curls. “How’s that?”

Sherlock nuzzled John’s neck. “Lorazepam is used for treating anxiety and insomnia.”

John contemplated that for a moment and then his lips spread into a disbelieving grin, “She doped our sugar with the one drug that would make us completely comfortable sleeping together.”

They both convulsed in giggles. “Who leaves their husband with a rival and then laces their sugar with a date-rape drug?!” John gasped, and they rolled apart for a moment, overcome with the ridiculousness of it all.

Then they sobered. “Perhaps it wasn’t meant as punishment at all,” Sherlock theorized.

John looked at him, and then back at the ceiling. “You know... we’ll never know for sure.”

“Agreed.” Sherlock rumbled.

They lay in silence for a moment, brooding on the bizarre nature of it all.

“But it’ll wear off,” John observed.

“Well, yes. It had begun to wear off already while we were up north at the boarding school, away from our own sugar bowl and your appalling habit of dumping the toxic stuff in everything you eat and drink,” Sherlock said.

“You’d think I’d have learned,” John said pointedly. Sherlock gave a bit of an eye roll.

They considered for a bit longer. “Withdrawal would also account for you panicking on the roof,” Sherlock offered.

“Ah, yes, about that,” John said, and pulled Sherlock back on top of him. “I have something to say about that.” He reached down and gave that round bum a caress. Then he smacked it sharply three times. Sherlock gave a yip of surprise and stared down at him, offended.

“If you ever run off and leave me like that again, I’ll spank your bottom till it’s as red as those curtains.” John told him sternly.

Sherlock blinked at him several times, his face turning a fetching pink. “Will you, John?”

“I will,” John promised.

Sherlock squirmed on top of him and sank to bury his face in John’s neck again, spreading his legs to grip John’s hips between his thighs. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he breathed, and shifted around a bit more. John squeezed him tight and grinned over his shoulder. Life was good. Strange. But good.


End file.
